


A Name On Paper

by waydurie



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Academy, Alternate Universe - High School, Angry John, Crimes & Criminals, Detectives, Drug Use, F/M, Homeless Network, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Kidnapping, London, M/M, Scotland Yard, Shy Sherlock, Travel, rebel john
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-12
Updated: 2015-01-19
Packaged: 2018-01-24 13:18:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 32,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1606562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waydurie/pseuds/waydurie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has been denied the sight of light for quite sometime. Ever since his mother died, he has only been able to see reflections and shadows of the light that surrounded the people around him. From that moment on, John was forced as the head of the house taking on two jobs and school to care for his family. One day, when summoned to the Headmaster's office, John gets the news of his pending scholarship to The Victorian Academy in London. Would his life be destined for a change when his roommate at 221B gets on his nerves or will his father burn his still beating heart in his hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Where life beginnings

**Author's Note:**

> Please enjoy and don't hesitate to provide any constructive criticisim as I find it very helpful and it is how I grow. :)

School has always been a constant worry in John's life as he's only been able to slide by barely enough to make it to the next grade. It would be a crime to attribute it to the fact that he didn't try to keep his grades up because that wasn't the case. Quite the opposite actually. John tried so hard to maintain his grades between his two jobs and family obligations, that the poor boy barely had any room for private time.

School work simply had no place in the seventeen year old's schedule. And if he was going to maintain his barely-there father and struggling sister, he needed some form of structure in his days.

John remembers the days of his youth where there was actually light entering through his eyes, filling him with wonder and knowledge. The boy's mother opened his heart and allowed tenderness and warmth fill every crevice like the true love of a mother. John had days filled with toothy smiles shared over the breakfast table or comforting hugs after a trip on the street. Memories of hands wrapping around him during cold nights with long blonde hair spilling over his shoulder onto his back.

Now, all John sees in the light is a reflection of what he once saw. Never the real magnitude of what the potent rays of sun could hold. Once they held the key to the universe, unlocking moments with his mother, with Harry, with the world. John was betrayed by the shinning light, as it blinded him when he began to trust. Leaving him numb and gasping for breath like a fish out of water.

The day John Watson was blinded by the light, he was no longer on the side of the angels.

His mother was dying with every breath she took and John knew she was struggling, that was the sad part of everything. However much he tried to deny it and escape from his brain, it only brought him closer to the fact that his mother was knocking at death's door. Ruth Watson had always been the strongest woman John had ever known and in the end cancer was her most formidable opponent. She didn't even last eight months even with chemotherapy and radiation but still John had hope.

_Didn't people somehow recover miraculously from cancer after almost dying?_

Life is not a movie, that is what his father told him after the machine hooked up to Ruth flatlined for what seemed like the last time. In that moment, John felt the world freeze under him and everything go quite. The noise within the room began dimming until it remained a distant hum in the back of his head. His trembling hand connected with his mother's for the last time as he brought towards to his chapped lips to give her one last kiss. Before John pressed his lips againsts her skin, he murmured against her skin the quote she always said to him as a little boy. However, now he made it sound as a promise

_**Death leaves a heartache no one can heal, love leaves a memory no one can steal.** _

After three weeks of having to watch the light in his father's eyes extinguish and the walls of the house and life crumble into ashes, John made himself a promise. The fate his mother suffered would not let the Watson name go to ruins if John had anything to do with it. He would hold the weight of his parent and sister on his shoulders and carry them across every ocean and continent if asked.

Now his father was slowly fading away while his sister drowned herself bottle after bottle in beer. That was three years ago. John was only fourteen at the time a mere boy. But the instant his mother died, John became a man-- he had to be.

  
X

Everyday when John wakes up, he panics at the thought of having to survive another dreaded day. A day in John's life meant waking up to a war already in action and the boy was dropped right the middle of a crossfire. John was essentially a soldier in his day-to-day life when in reality all he wanted was to be a normal bloke who could relax with a few of his mates over a pint. Better yet, at least be able to complete his school work and achieve a decent seven hours of sleep versus the measly four maximum he receives now.

Dragging his sleep ridden body from the hardly slept in bed, John put on his so to speak battle armor -- an oatmeal colored jumper and a pair of jeans-- and went downstairs to prepare breakfast for the rest of the house. He knew nobody else would be bothered to do it, so better get on it.

Harry would probably come back from a drunken stupor in a few minutes and would need a strong meal to aid her hangover and his father was never picky when it came to food, so John prepared an easy rendition of scrambled eggs on toast with orange juice.

When he was contemplating on making a side of bacon, Harry stumbled in --quite loudly, mind you-- through the door and greeted John in a slur. " Hullo, John. What'cha doin' this fine mornin'? I had a great night wit' Clara an' her mates..." From what John was observing, his disheveled sister only had moments left in her energy storage tanks.

"My night was fine, Harry thank you for asking. The new episode of my TV show was on last night, so after work I watched a bit before I went to bed." Despite the fact that he was blatantly lying to his sister, John slid a plate piled with nutritious food over to Harry's direction and desperately tried to ignore her loud belch.

At this stage of his life John knew not to even meddle in Harry's drinking habits because God knew he's tried time and time again but its like talking to a wall whose always on the verge of throwing up. John just grinned and bared it, not egging her on by supplying her the money to fuel her addictions, but not denying her the freedom she craves. However, he draws the line when it come to transportation. Harry must always be driven home by a sober member of her social group in order to leave the house and return in one piece.

John wasn't aware he was lost inside of the recess of his crowded brain until Harry broke the silence speaking through a mouthful of half-chewed bread. "John aren't ya gonna be late for school or somethin' like that?" John furtively glanced at the clock and almost screamed with frustration. Again he would be late for another day of class that he most certainly couldn't afford to be. His attendance and tardy sheet was already marked more than a has cheetah spots.

Running from the kitchen with just an apple in hand --having to ignore the hearty breakfast he prepared-- John sprinted to school with his books in hands, papers flying in air.  
Sweat was pouring down every surface of John's body as he arrived to his school campus with seconds to spare before the late bell rang. A quick detour to the bathroom to wipe his sweat riddled face and neck, John marched of to his first block class which was biology. Great, thought John. Just the bore he needed in the morning to fall asleep after a previous day of serving food to obnoxious teenagers in a diner and then sorting books at a late night library. Then he remembered those events would be precisely what would await him later today along with dealing with a grumpy Harry post-hangover and a foul father after his job. _Just great._

Mrs. Delany was John's fossil of a teacher with her thinning silver hair and sagged postured due to years of weighing stress. His teacher was a tiny thing compared to anyone, even John and he was five foot six.

When the misses began droning on about cell diving and mitosis and so forth, John tuned off and tried to get in touch with himself for once. Its been a long time since John has been able to process what he has been feeling inside or what events have taken place in his recent life.

John came up with a very sound conclusion in record time.

Easy, he was sick and tired of the life he was living. It wasn't the fact that he minded caring after his father and sister, but more the fact that he was but a teen at the prime of his life in charge of two adults who acted like premature infants. Shouldn't he be somewhere exploring the opportunities the world can give? So far all he has experienced is death, hurt, and heartbreaking loss. When was his life going to get exciting and worth living--John wanted to taste the thrill of danger fresh on his tongue. At least Harry had her own version of entertainment as she drowned her feelings in bottles of ale and cheap liquor--there was never an 'or' with Harry.

John was even contemplating leaving everything he owned along with his family to join the army just to get his fill in _something_ of substance. He snickered at the thought that he resembled like a drug addict in desperate need of a high. However, in his case, he wanted to feel the raising of his pulse, the thundering of his heart beneath his ribs, the adrenaline surging through his veins. Maybe he was an addict, just in need of a different sort of high.

A loud, indifferent voice boomed through the classroom announcement system, breaking John out of his daydream. "Could a... _John Watson_ please make his way to the Headmaster's office. Thank you." Like a scene out of a cliché high school movie, every student in the classroom turned their attention towards the boy who was currently trying to make himself disappear into thin air. A few bubbly giggles were heard as John was still motionless in his seat with a pink blush blooming on his cheeks. No, he needed what insignificant amount of dignity he had left, so John picked his textbooks from the table and marched to the office with his head held high...

Until he reached the corridor where his mind started to attack itself with worrying thoughts. What has he done that has been significantly bad enough to be called down for a meeting with the Headmaster? Sure, he was late most days and had to leave early to make it to his job, but that wasn't a crime. Well, John didn't think it was and that is what mattered, right? John let out a defeated huff of air as he made the journey to his death-- yes, John wasn't going to make it out of this one alive.

At the office, there was only one secretary manning both telephones and visitors, so she had her hands full at the moment with parents constantly ringing about the pending fundraiser and students awaiting a guardian to pick them up. John didn't particularly mind waiting a while as it meant he got to breath and calm the knots in his churning stomach. When Tricia, the secretary, finally signaled him over, John felt literal sweat form at the nape of his neck.

"You must be John Watson. The Headmaster will be right with you." With a minucured finger, Tricia motioned the teen to sit over at a basic chair while she continue to answer the frenzy of phone calls. John settled his focus on the relatively young woman who resided in the office besides him. Even under pressure, she managed to maintain an aura of calm radiating from her presence. How John wished some of that calmness would rub off on him.

John had a horrible habit to incessantly stare at the clock when he was nervous or waiting for time to go by faster. This tick didn't help solve the Rubix cube of nerves that laid like a colorful mess nor did it soothe his sanity. 

After exactly six minutes and twenty three seconds, to his left, John felt a shift in the air as the door into the Headmaster's quarters opened. A tall, portly man stepped out to reveal himself; clad in a rather dull, powder blue shirt and mismatched brown trousers. Aside from the obvious receding hairline and nicotine stained fingers, Mr. SanGeorge looked...normal?

"John, right this way." The terrified boy stood from is chair and walked past the Headmaster into the office. Right in front of John was a large desk that had most of its polish peeling off. A few family pictures containing children of various ages littered the surface of said desk that for the state of the pristine room, seemed to be a disappointment. Papers scattered and piled over every inch of the flat surface only revealing a small patch of cleared space to actually complete any work in. Mr. SanGeorge cleared his throat, "Have a seat John, so we can start talking about certain, shall we say...opportunities that have arisen for you."

John's defeated posture suddenly perked up when he heard that key word slither its way past his superior's mouth. So he wasn't in trouble. The boy mentally fist punched both of his arms in the air as a sign of new found victory. "Alright, Sir. What do you mean by _opportunities_?"

Now seated, the Headmaster clasped his hands together and furrowed his brows in a serious expression before he spoke. "It has come not only to my attention but to that of your teachers and peers that your grades are currently suffering due to your...circumstances. However, you try your hardest in class, are attentive, and always do your homework without fail. So, when the inquisition to select one student for a scholarship at London's most prestigious private academy, the teachers made a unanimous decision to elect you. Of course the decision to go or not is entirely up to you, however, this is an opportunity of a life time. The Victorian Academy of London waits for no one, Watson."

In his mind, John knew his mouth was wide open and that an insect could find it's way inside, however, he couldn't care less. He must be hallucinating or the world is deciding to play a very cruel joke on him. Offer him the one possibility to turn his life around completely for the better the rip the rug under his feet and let life spit onto his face the cold, biter words of reality. People like John Watson didn't deserve good things, much less opportunities like this.

"Mr. SanGeorge, may I ask exactly what school I have been offered a scholarship for? Better yet, does it have a dorm? Will I be responsible for the food costs? What means of transportation..." The poor boy was hurdling questions so rapidly at the man, he could tell just from the gleam in John's eyes, that John so desperately wanted to grasp onto this chance and hold onto for dear life.

"John," the oldest of the two, held his hand out as a sign for John to cease his comical rambling. "Take this brochure with the academy's information so you can read and make an educated desicion. You have until next Monday to give me your final answer along with your the signature from your father." A cheshire grin grew on Mr.SanGeorge's face as John oozed with excitement and happiness.

"Thank you, Sir. I will try to have my answer before then. Just, thank you, you have no idea what this means to me." John shook the Headmaster's hand vigorously before he _skipped_ out of his office and into the grey painted corridors and began humming a merry song. Now he only needed to convince his father to sign the authorization forms and off he goes to good old London.

X

When John arrived home from his second job at Late Night Tales, he all but ran home to see if he managed to catch his father awake. It was still nine in the evening, however, John's father was never know for enjoying late night telly or a good game of cards.

Once the jubilant teen reached his porch, he noticed the living room lights were turned on and that Harry's car was gone for the night. The only other person left at home was his father, so it was now or never, thought John.

The keys to the house quivered in John's nervous hands as he tried to put them in their respective place. At this pace, his father would be getting ready for work the next day before John even entered the house. Finally inside, the teen dropped his bag from school by the door and toed of his shoes, walking down the short walkway that lead directly into the living room. Strewn across the beige couch holding the remote flush to his chest was his father attentively watching some crime show on TV.

As two uniformed officers ran after a buff ex-con through the streets of a city, John sat adjacently to his father in a single seat. Deciding not to interrupt his father who seemed to be actively enjoy his program, John waited for the commercial brake to finally brake the silence.

"Hello, father. How was your day at work today?" Great. He already ruined the conversation within his first two sentences. John never sounded this polite around his father, not even around his grandmama did he use pleasantries such as these.

Luckily for him, his father was too stimulated from his show and the pending visit from Mr. Sandman that he merely responded in an equal fashion."It was fine, John. And yours, learn anything new in those classes of yours?"

"Oh! Yeah, it was...good? Yeah, good." The uncomfortable sensation within the room was so thick that John was suffocating with shame at his own actions. Damn.

"Good, son. I'm just going to head up and get some sleep. Don't go to bed late and make sure to lock all the doors. Also, when Harry comes back tell her I need to speak with her." His father began to rise from the couch and a flame exploded within John. He was letting his father get away and he was probably not going to get another chance to speak to him before Monday.

"Actually father about that, I actually have to tell you something." the position the boy was in was slightly squirmish and unsure as he jittered like a pre-schooler on his first day of school.

"Are you in any trouble I should know about, John?" His father's attention was now peaked and alert as he stood ramrod strait on the plush carpet with his browns drawn together and his lips pulled thin.

"No! Nothing like that dad. Actually the opposite..." Why was he so nervous to tell his father news that should bring him pride when he shared it with his family. John should be shouting it from every rooftop on the city and into the ears of every person willing to hear and even those who aren't.

Maybe he was hesitant because in his mind he knew that his father would never allow him to actually go. His life wasn't meant to be good and full of opportunities. No, John had to be punished like Prometheus and be tied to a stone letting vultures eat away at his internal organs. John tried to play with the light that life offered and in the end, he got burned. His father would never take over the responsibility of the Watson household because it would finally mean admitting that his wife is dead and he has to be a single parent and he wasn't ready for that--he would never be.

"You had me scared, John. Now tell me what has you wound up like that." His father's face lightened slightly but still held a touch of worry written on it.

"You see, today I was called into the Headmaster's office...to receive some news. that I sort of wanted to share with you. Actually I need to share with you." John cleared his throat one last time and mentally cursed himself for being a weakling. "So, apparently, all of my teachers are seeing the effort I put into class and they wanted to award me with a scholarship...to a private academy in...London. The Victorian Academy of London to be exact..." Now all John had to do was wait for the other shoe to drop.

His father's face contorted into a handful of emotions ranging from confused to frustrated and everything in between. When he finally spoke to John, he could tell his father was trying not to scream his head off judging from the steam rushing from his ears. "What do you mean you got a **_'scholarship'_** to a school all the way in bloody _ **London**_?! John do you have any idea what the cost just for the train fare be like? We don't have that sort of money growing on trees and you especially should know."

Cowering slightly, John answered trying to regain control of the situation. "Well, I do have two jobs now. If I were to save a bit of money from each job instead of investing it all on the household needs, I could take care of the train fare myself. Also, everything else is paid for beforehand, even the textbooks and meal plan. I am only in charge of extra expenses like furniture for the flat or clothes."

"So, John, if you know so much to be considered for this academy, tell me, where are me and Harry going to get our food? Or maintain our lifestyle? With my job alone, I can't pay for the house, groceries, and Harry's unspeakable habits and you know what I am talking about."

And there was the proverbial sword coming back to stab John repeatedly through every inch of his heart, as he watched his dreams melt in the hands of his father. The little light that was being reflected into his eyes dimmed even more. Because, how ever much he wanted to deny the fact he was right, John simply couldn't.

"Have some faith in Harry. Maybe she is willing to change her ways and she could get a job to lighten the economic load." John was positive his idea was a valuable one to add to the imaginary table of discussion. It was a bit farfetched -- a right, maybe it was near impossible-- but John still believed in his sister after everything that has happened.

However, his father scoffed rather rudely and said, "Harry doesn't care about anyone else but herself and the precious alcohol she drinks. Stop believing in faery tales John and grow up, you're almost eighteen."

John was usually very controlled when it came to his temper and was able to keep his true emotions from bubbling up to the surface, however, his father was wielding a stick that kept poking him in all of the wrong places.

"Don't say that about my sister. She could surprise you and you would never know because you never gave her a chance. Harry is stronger than you are because when mum died, sure she gained a drinking habit, but she never abandoned her family. She still cares about me and my day and actually bothers to see if I'm alive." With a more enraged tone, John added. "Also, how are you being different from her if all you care about now is yourself and how you could lose you 'lavish' lifestyle? Look around you dad, does this look like Buckingham Palace? Where's are the silk drapes and diamond chandeliers?"

"Johnny boy, this is where you are wrong. I am not being selfish despite the fact you believe I am. Think of it as a countermeasure to preserve the Watson name and not have another failure added to the list. Also, we don't need to set the neighborhood on our case any more than they are already involved." The nerve this man had to call him and his sister a failure. Lies were spewing from his father's mouth like a constant current of water in a river.

"What reputation does the Watson name have exactly dad? Besides the fact we are known as the pathetic widower with the alcoholic daughter and a menial son." John tightened his knuckles to the point that his fingernails left cavernous impression on his palm.

"Precisely son. That is as far as I wan't the family name to be tainted. I couldn't dream of a day where genius-wanna-be was added to the list or money leech either. Watson's are supposed to be strong and independent, not a weak and sad boy like you, John.You can't just think of your benefits when coming to these decisions that effect a whole family and expect everyone to jump on the same train as you."

Rage. Pure, unadulterated rage began bubbling through John's veins beginning from the tips of his toes and slowly burning its way up his body imprinting the message of hate.

"I made this decision based on my future, so, yes call me selfish because I actually want to go somewhere in life and be something. If Harry is happy drinking her miseries away then good on her. And if you are fine with living a useless life, then congratulations! But for me I don't want that kind of life where the most exciting event of my day is restocking a bookshelf or getting to take an extra five minute break. I want an actual job with a title like Doctor Watson and help invent cures to diseases or something like that. This is my future on the line, not the future of some stranger but of your own son who could potentially become something great. Are you really willing to let that chance slip through your fingers?"

A disturbing smile etched its way on his father's face as he spoke in a sneering way. "What makes you think that you're good enough to become a doctor, John? You can't even pass biology without being excempt from all dissections. You are a failure, John and you know it. Just admit to yourself and we'll be done with this petty fight and never have to speak of this topic again. I'm trying to be a good father and protect you from the words of harsh people but I guess you like the pain. Don't come crying to me when life beats you down and you can't get back up."

Taking a dangerous step closer to his father, John was now positioned less than two feet distance from the slightly taller man. "The only one beating me down right now is you and your stupid obsession to stay oblivious to what is going on in life. Why can't you actually open your eyes and take a look around? You don't have to look that far to see that me and Harry need your help in order to succeed and become something in life. Remember when Harry was offered that chance to join a theatre school in the city but you made her turn it down. What happened two weeks later? Because if I remember correctly, that was the first time she came home drunk hanging unconscious by Clara's side.

"Now its my turn to possibly change my life for the better yet again you are making the same mistake and forcing me to turn it down. What benefit do you get from having us trapped here at home watching us suffer everyday? When was the last time any of us has actually smiled?" John's rage was overtaken by an intense wave of sadness as he began remembering the night when Clara knocked on their door frantically crying for them to help Harry wake up.

The first words his sister said when she awoke were somewhere along the lines, Mom looks so beautiful surrounded by the lights, Johnny. I saw her yesterday and I never want to lose her again.

When John returned his gaze towards his father, John noticed the man seemed unfazed by his emotional rant and was actually holding back a smile. "Such a moving story, John but you could have done better. Ever since you were little, you've been getting better and better at stringing up lies to make people dance like puppets around you. Always getting what you want and nobody had any mind to object. This time, I'm not going to fall into your trap, John. My word is final and you are in no way going to that school."

"Father! Do you know how unfair you are being know? Most parents would die for this chance to have their child go of to an academy in the middle of London for might I add, no charge, to enhance their education. But no, you have to keep me shackled up in this house as your replacement wife just so you don't have to face the fact that mum is dead. Get over it! Mother has been dead for three years now and she'll just be that forever--dead. She's not coming back and you have to face that sooner or later and I won't be here later when you're an old man alone coming to the realization of you failures. Making your son who is barely of age take over the helm of the household because you are to depressed to get up in the mornings. Encouraging your alcoholic daughter to continue her ways as long as you don't have to deal with her. Really father, you should be proud." John was seething by the end of his discussion. If he were to picture himself, he would imagine foam spurting from the corners of his mouth with bloodshot eye and skin tainted so red it could rival a tomato. he tried really to use every other approach before using his wild side but c'est la vie.

Now it was his father's turn to begin reacting in a rather unpleasant matter as he closed the little space between the boy and him and spit into John's face with pure anger higlighting every word. No subtext was needed to understand the words of the senior Watson. "John, I believe I have been patient enough with you tonight trying to get this stupid idea out of your head. However, as it seems you just can't leave it alone, I'll make it easy for you. If you ever even mention this topic again, I will make your life so miserable that you will look back to even these days and wish you would have listened to me. I will take your tiny little heart out of your chest and _burn_ it with everything you love or care about. Read my lips. Y _ou will never leave this house until I say you can_. Am I clear?" His father accentuated his final question poking John roughly by his sternum causing a burning ache to add to his shattering body.

John said nothing.

He just turned around in autopilot and marched up the stairs into his room. His body dropped against the door as his chest racked with muffled sobs. Hot tears trailed their way down John's face as his once celestial eyes darkened into a cobalt hue. Even the light in his eyes was slowly fading with every wrench being through in his way.

As he suspected, life so viciously ripped the rug from under his feet and now commenced the stage where the endless emotional pain tethered itself relentlessly to every one of his waking thoughts.

Yet again he was left crying. It seemed like every step he took, every result always ended up to be bawling his eyes out and wishing it would have been him in the grave instead of his mother. In a heartbeat, John would take his mother's place six feet under just to make his life more entertaining if possible.

At the back of his mind, John felt an idea come to his head and in his opinion it was rather genius even though it might be extremely dangerous. However, it seemed ingenious and right now John was desperate for any resolution.

His plan was rather simple but consisted a great amount of waiting. Much like a father penguin warming it's egg during the winter while the mother is searching for food. Exasperating but worth the wait.

If John where to forge his father's signature --which he has nearly perfected over the years-- he could simply enter the forms into Mr. SanGeorge and no one would suspect anything. John also needed to set the contact information to his mobile number and create an alias email. He would also have to ask a friend -- technically an acquantanse-- if he could set their address as the appointed one for any mail sent via post. Yet considering everything that was a slight price to pay for the massive opportunity to go to The Victorian Academy of London.

Of course, John would have to keep quite of the fact over the remainder of the school year and over the summer. He also needed to somehow find a new income of money since now his father would be keeping a closer eye on his bank account. Perhaps, a new job with less hours on the side that paid in cash would work. When September would roll around, John's goal was to have enough money for a train ride to London and enough spare cash to possibly sustain him for a few weeks before he got a job. Just because he was going to a rich school didn't make John rich. It just made him more aware of the fact that he had to earn his living instead of whining for every item they owned. John deserved everything he had and paid his dues in order to receive them. That fact made John slightly proud of himself as it made him feel somehow superior to the upperclass.

Then, after a quick look through the academy's website to find the first day of the new term, John matched a train ride into London that arrived a few days before to give him time to settle in and greet his roommate. The most shocking part was actually seeing the price next to the electronic ticket stub announcing its terrifying value. John certainly needed another job to cover this expense but what hours of the day would he spare to squeeze another job if he barely had time for the ones he had.

John would find a way. Nothing was impossible and certainly not if the benefit would be as incredible as this.

Immediately, on the laptop, John began searching for any available jobs in his town that were hiring teens and paid cash. After a few e-mails that included his extensive CV and voice messages with a certain pleading voice, John was set for any promising offers that may come his way.

From a stack of scrap paper, John began practicing his father's signature to assure no mistakes in the process because he did only have one chance if he wanted to pass under the radar with this more than incriminating scheme he was pulling.

However, if he got what he wanted and all it took was impersonating his father and breaking several laws, John has sold his soul and signed his name in his fresh blood.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for anyone reading this and I hope you enjoy because I know I love coming home everyday to write for you guys! Also a HUGE thanks to me amazing Beta -- Mytravelingteacup if it weren't for her this story would not be even as half of what it is now. Don't be afraid to comment or leave kudos!

His heart was pounding profusely in his chest thanks to his nervous nature as he revisited the office chair he once sat in the day before. The folder containing the forms with the notorious signature, was held up to John's chest as he continued to hyperventilate.

In from the nose, out from the mouth.

How could a simple white folder weight more than a tonne and burn like a fueled fire in his hands. Every second that passed, it seemed like every second that passed, the folder would scream directly into his ear...

**_Liar!_ **

**_Sin!_ **

**_Burn!_ **

Guilt was slowly rising in his throat like a serpent, slithering its way up John's trachea, threatening to dispel itself from his mouth. He felt he was literally going to be sick as all the color left his face and a tremor began in his left hand. Clutching the papers even tighter, John tried to calm himself with the notion of the pay off if his plan went off without a hitch.

This morning, John woke up earlier than usual to arrive at school with enough time to pop by the office and hand in his 'signed' papers. Unfortunately, this meant that he had to abandon Harry when she returned for her night out with Clara, but he felt less guilt when he thought about the plate of breakfast and money he left on the kitchen table for her. Now if Harry decided she needed any extra amenities to comfort her stay at home and keep her mouth quite about the unspeakable deed John did, that was a price he was willing to pay. John vainly crossed his fingers that she would use the money for necessities and not booze. At this point he could only hope and pray to someone up there-- _anyone_ willing to listen.

After his miniature prayer session, the lovely Tricia entered and clocked in for work. She gracefully assumed her position behind the expansive oak desk and sent John a warm smile but no words or regards. It was yet to be eight in the morning, but there were an abundance of papers already piling up on her desk. With a secure nod to herself, she dived into the pool of papers only catching breaths in between completed sheets. John stared in awe for what seemed like a decade (it was five minutes John, stop being so dramatic!) before Mr. SanGeorge enter the office as well.

John rose to his feet like a fawn steading itself on its long, awkward legs for the first time. He quickly grabbed the edge of the secretary's desk to stabilize himself and walked towards the headmaster. From the corner of his eyes, John could see Tricia try to keep her attention trained to her paper but her curious eyes kept deviating towards the scene unraveling before her.

With a quiet cough John believed to be strong and assertive but sounded more like a grunt from an cave man, he spoke. "Excuse me, sir. I have the papers. The ones I had to sign... I mean had to give my father to sign." Leave it to John to rat himself out. If he could dig a whole deep enough to burry himself, believe it, he would try.

"You weren't kidding when you said you would have the papers in early, Watson." A satisfied expression crossed the older man's eyes as he continued to speak to the youth. "Thanks. Makes my job when the board's not hounding me for signed papers."

John was uncertain whether he should laugh out of politeness or simply nod at the man's final statement. Social cues were completely out of the equation when it came to the teen who secluded himself on purpose. As if sensing his confusion, Mr. SanGeorge chuckled heartedly and shook his head.

"Enjoy you day, John. We will be speaking later this month about grades and some important dates you should know about. Other than that, everything else should be sent from the academy itself either by e-mail or like they did in our days, the post." One last brief smile was shared before John scurried out of the door and waltzed his way through the hallway along with the other hundred students or so going in the opposite direction as him.

Immediately, John felt like a weight was lifted off of his shoulders and that the fire of guilt within his heart had been extinguished. The incriminating papers were no longer in his hands which meant he was brave enough to accomplish the first step of his plan. John couldn't let his guard down now just because he got past the first step, but now he knew that every step after this would grow to be easier than the last. In his mind, John still felt a heavy veil of concern and distraction shadow his every move, so he now depended on autopilot.

John entered his corresponding class --literature, fun...not really-- and took his usual seat in the shaded corner. He opened his notebook and sighed as he began the daily process of searching for a pencil. Asking about three different students and finally getting a nub of a pencil with no eraser, John settled back into his chair and just sat. While the whole class, including the teacher thought he was being studious and taking down every note on the board, John was actually in a whole other world separate from that of sentence flow and transitions.

In this world, his mother was still around proving warmth and radiant light wherever she stood; John would just stand near her and greedily absorb as much light as he could. Harry didn't need to get into a drunken stupor to be connected to mummy because she was still alive in this dimension. Instead, she danced for Mother, basking in her loving compliments.Best of all, John's father wasn't a brooding shadow. With his family's improvements, along with Harry's and the actuality of his mother's life, John need not have a job which gave him time to have an actual personal life. Now had time to get to school and complete his schoolwork on time, he even got to study for his test despite his growing hate for school. In addition to stable grades, friends were included into the equation of what was known as the _John Watson Theorem_. Amongst his group of casual friends, John had a best friend who would play footie with him after school but when the time came, they were able to talk about anything and everything.

John knew he was torturing himself with the imagination of such fantasy but he was incapable of stopping such a simple thing that caused him so much pleasure. It was impossible to bring his mother back to life and that was a fact. Unless John was the first person to invent a machine that could somehow reverse the damage of death, his mother was staying in her resting place for a long time. Then came his father. No amount of persuasion of any form could change his view on life after Ruth died and it was suicide to wedge yourself in the center of him and his denial over her death. Of course, sweet, precious Harry came next. John couldn't blame her in the way he did his father because her motives were more innocent in a way than his father's yet still self-destructive nonetheless. When Harry drank beer after beer, she did it knowing that her inebriated self would achieve such elysian, that she would see mummy. It was no different than John's day dreaming of a picture-perfect family. However, John's form of coping with their mother's death didn't entail an early trip to the grave as did Harry's. Sure, John was slowly losing his mind, blurring the lines between reality and imagination, but no one else paid the price. When Harry got drunk, the weight of her actions fell heavily on the whole family and mostly on her.His father on the other hand, simply denied Ruth's death to maintain an unseen oppressive reign upon John and Harry. Although John did all the work around the house, his father was manipulating the controls and pressing the buttons that decided whether John would dance or not.

The only aspect about his fantasy that seemed to be realistic was the goal of obtaining a friend. Now, John didn't even waste time to think about finding a subtable friend that could accommodate to John's ridiculous work hours and spontaneous moods not to mention also loyal and actually worth spending time with. However, when and _if_ he made it to The Victorian Academy of London, John would have all the time after class to socialize. He would even have a roommate to come home to every evening. John desperately needed his signed papers to go by without a fuss so that at least one part of his fantasy can become an actuality.

  
So ,here commenced the waiting period to see if Mr. SanGeorge or the school board became suspicious at the signature on the forms. Perhaps it might be the speed in which John returned the papers or the noticeable twitch he had when handing them in. Would the Headmaster just cast it off as John's nervousness and not look into the blatant sheen of sweat forming on the boy's hairline? No, it would definitely be the contact information that would finally point a nasty finger towards John's direction and sell him out for the universe to deal with his fate. If the superintendents were to thoroughly search the information John handed in, going as far as cross referencing it with police databases and state-of-the-art technology, John didn't stand a chance.

_Get your act together, Watson!_

A startling shout broke John from his panicked thoughts that suspiciously sounded far too much like his father. A shiver rippled through his body violently as he tried to dispel the terrible thoughts from his head and focus on class.

X

During his lunch break, John decided to turn on his phone and check for a response from his job application mania. Since John couldn't afford lunch --thank you, Harry--, John wandered outside to rest against a viridescent tree. It was mid-May in England and the weather was typically rainy. Today was one of those uncharacteristically warm days that brought with it a fresh breeze, keeping John cool. The blades of grass and budding wildflowers beneath him have just started growing to their proper height, due to of the inconsistent weather that pointed towards the frigid side of the spectrum.

When he was perched upon a smooth rock, he pulled from his back pocket a beaten and rundown phone. Yes, it wasn't the newest gadget in stores that had millions of neon lights announcing its arrival, but as long as it allowed him to make calls and check his e-mail, he couldn't be bothered to care. A few caring jostles and encouraging love-pats were needed to activate the pre-historic device, but once the bright light shone from the screen announcing its awakening, John gave a content grin. By the time the internet connected and actually opened, John's lunch period was halfway done. Eventually, he logged onto his e-mail account, and completed the first step which was filtering through the common yet annoying spam mail. John let out a huff of air until he reached a notice with an interesting offer from an art store not far from his house. A spark of excitement sprouted from the base of his spine and encompassed the rest of his back, seeping into his sinew and bones.

_Dear John,_

_Thank you for contacting us! We are looking for young, hip workers at the moment to add to our atmosphere. Due to the fact that ROY. G. BIV is new in town, pay will be on the low side but the hours are completely flexible and to your choosing. Also since you seem to have a couple of steady jobs at the moment like it says on you CV, my parter and I kind of figured you would benefit from the fact. We are a 24-hour store so we have all hours available. If you are interested John, please contact me back at this e-mail address and I'll see when we can get you started._

_Heather_

John was grasping for his fleeting breath to return to him as he continued to read over the message again and again. Was life playing another one of it's cruel tricks?

John couldn't possibly survive another slap in the face of cold-hearted reality and the wretched success for his father so soon. Once was enough, a second time was crossing the line. John pondered on the idea of life simply trying to give John some twisted form of a test to see how committed the junior was willing to be to attend the academy. John did find a loophole through his father's ignorance of the needs of others and incompetence to accept the truth. Forging his father's signature was innovative and it demonstrated what risks John was willing to take in order to make his dreams come true. Basically, John put his family, pride, dignity, and permanent record on the line. Life better be willing to help after last night's scene or John was doomed for eternity and more.

If life was finally willing to play on his team for once, John would seize the opportunity in his greedy hands.

Before the bell was due to ring, John responded with his thanks for the job and estimated the hours he would be available. Now, John had a promised source of income to supply his train fare money and expenses in London. The best part was not having to involve his father or his ravenous rage in anyway. Sure, the pay was low, he still had three months before September would be knocking on his door, dragging him all the way to London.

For the first time in three years, John felt something akin to satisfaction.

The bell signaling the commencement of class rang clear through the air, breaking John out of his thoughts. Forcing his muscles to obey the commands he desperately needed them to follow, John stood from his sturdy rock. He walked the short distance from the safety of his rock to the gates of eternal torture minding not to bump into any students.

 

X

  
Later that night, John was entering the last hour of his job at Late Night Tales, he decided he needed a well earned break. Of course his boss wasn't supposed to _see_ John on this break but John was so exhausted he didn't really care. His bones had been chiseled away by repeated climbing ladders and placing books on shelves, frantically emptying his assigned carts. With careful steps, John managed to find a broom closet that was barren besides several overturned buckets. John sat on a bright yellow bucket and pulled out his phone. Since his phone was already switched on from previous engagements, John's struggle with the relic was minimized, all he had to do was open his email account. Lo and behold, the only message blinking on his screen was one sent from a certain Heather with a subject of _Job Meeting_.

_Dear John,_

_It was nice to hear from you! Rheis and me are glad that you have taken our offer for the job and have such convenient hours. However, we still would like for you to stop by ROY. G. BIV tomorrow so we can meet you in person. Our business relies mostly on customer interaction and although you seem like a nice, young lad, we also need to get your consent for some other legal papers to confirm your job. The fact that we pay in cash requires us to do some additional hassle. Hope this doesn't inconvenience you in any way! Anyways, I hope to see you at our store tomorrow at around 15:00 in the afternoon. If this doesn't work, just send me a better hour. Have a nice day!_

_Heather_

For the second time in one day, John's heart was in danger of pounding out of his chest. This moment felt like two pieces of a puzzle clicking together and he could almost taste the sweet, delicious flavor of victory. Granted, the meeting would start during school hours but what was another stripe on a tiger's fur coat.

John left the closet with a deliriously content smile and went on working without further interruptions, for the, forty or so minutes left in his shift. Then he would be off to his house yet again sneaking around like a quite little mouse trying not to draw any attention to himself.

At exactly 22:30, John swung the front door open and just walked out of the quaint store nestled between a dance studio and a children's shoes store. Despite the fact that John had emerged on what was a "main" street, not a soul was roaming the world of the living at this late hour. Every store was closed for the night with their lights turned off and doors locked until the next business day.

The only sign of life at such hour came from the local pubs, equipped with disjointed out-dated music, booming from low quality speakers. Two bodies animatedly turned the corner towards John's direction. The soft click of heels rang through his ears when he began to hear their giggling voices. Once they passed under a street light and John could make out more of the actual people, suddenly he wanted to scour. On the left was a girl just out of uni. Her fine, sandy hair was cut into a short fringe just below her ears. Clad in a pair of faded jeans and a striped shirt. John didn't need a sign above the girl's head for him to identify her as Harry. He knew his sister and by the looks of it, she hasn't reached any level of intoxication yet. By association, John guessed that the girl with long cinnamon curls walking hand-by-hand at her side must have been Clara. Although he has never seen the brunette, he has heard much about her from Harry during her drunken rants before school or after her nap on the weekends.

Harry was older than John by six years and she had no reservations using the age gap to her advantage. Growing up, Harry had always managed to upstage John no matter the occasion. Whether it was a special event in school, their parents alway chose to attend Harry's. Then if John was sick, he got the average thermometer in the mouth and hot bowl of soup. But Harry, she got the royal package, their parents waiting at all times to tend to her needs, meals brought to her room. Name it and Harry was spoiled enough to have it. Now that their mother was dead, she still wasn't exempt from the same rules. Father still favored her over John any day and the evidence was clear. When Harry would return home from the pub drunk, John was expected to meet her every needs. If John was ever misfortunate enough to catch even the slightest case of allergies, no mercy would be shown.

Feeling an opportunity, John hurried his pace towards the two girls until he was standing before both girls.

"John! What are you doing here?" The look of surprise on Harry's face was like a small child being caught during a naughty act. Her eyes shot open as wide as the size as the moon.

"Just got out of work and saw you walking down the street." A smug grin revealed itself on John's lips. "Just wanted to say hello."

"Okay, fine. Hello. Now, you can go and let me and Clara have some fun while you do whatever you have to do." Harry balled her hands firmly by her hips, staring down at her obnoxious younger brother. Her eyes spoke promises of murder if John didn't leave soon.

"Where's the fun in that Harry? I just want to spend some time with my favorite sister." John made it a point at fluttering his eyelashes multiple times while staring at a teeming Harry.

"First of all, I'm your only sister and the fun I like to have isn't considered in your... area. And second, you better march your sorry butt home before dad sees where you really are and who you're with. From all the moaning and groaning I heard today, I can tell you he is most definitely not happy with you." From one of her pockets, Harry pulled a cigarette followed by a lighter. She brought the filter of the cancer stick to her mouth, cupping her hands at the end to ignite the end. Her chest visibly enlarged as she inhaled a deep breath of pure tobacco and nicotine, trying to control her emotions.

Now it was John's turn to get frustrated as he let out what he truly thought. "I have a life of my own Harry. I don't need father's last say on everything to see if I do this or that. I'm almost eighteen for crying out loud."

Harry let out a ring of smoke when she sighed, looking at Clara with an apologetic look. "Clara, could you start ordering? You Know what I like.?" The mute girl simply nodded and strode into the pub a swirl of alcohol, sweat, and stale cigarettes, meeting John's nose as the door shut closed.

Harry impatiently began tapping her foot. "What's happening John?"

"It doesn't matter. Go have fun with Clara and I'll be fine." John looked down at his shoes avoiding his sister's laser glare and kicked the tip of his shoes against the concrete. He tried to convey an air of certainty, however, he felt his insides tearing at him.

"John, I don't have all night! Either be a man and tell me what's bothering you or go home like a coward and let dad win again. Shutting your mouth and letting you swallow your pride. Your choice."

Harry wasn't usually this harsh when she talked the John, but when someone got in the middle of her potentially getting a good bottle of beer, things got personal. A groan rippled from John's mouth as he saw Harry release yet another billow of smoke from the side of her mouth. "Harry, its not that I don't want to tell you. It's actually the opposite, I'm dying to tell you. I just can't involve you in my problems."

"Why don't you let me decide whether or not I want to be involved in your problems?"

"You have no idea how I desperately want to tell you. You're just so stubborn! You know when I say something its usually to protect you."

A deathly glare was sent in John's direction, he tried to meet her eyes but the layer of ice that settled under his skin was unnerving. It was ironic that the burning embers of her cigarette did nothing to calm the ice.

"I don't need you to protect me, John! I'm older than you."Harry's face changed from her usual stubborn, frustrated glare, to a more rare bashful and compassionate look. She dropped her cigarette onto the groud and extingushed the tip with her foot. "Sure, I might have a little defect when it comes to managing my liquor, but I have been through life's bad graces more than you have. Tell me something I don't know."

Telling Harry about any part of his plan was basically committing murder-suicide. John was feeding his sister to the lion that is her father if he were to find out she was a accomplice and John would certainly serve his time for being the evil mastermind. However, in this moment, he ached for the support of someone close to him and reassure him that he was on the right path. John knew that Harry was the right person for the job (when she wasn't chugging down bottles of beer or sleeping of a hangover) but did she deserve to be lead to the slaughter house? It didn't matter to John that she was willing to go at her own volition, John didn't want his sister to suffer on his behalf.

"If I tell you, Harry, things with father are going to get dangerous --more than they already are. I need you to swear to me you won't tell a living soul about what I am going to tell you. That also includes Clara." John fixed her with a steady eye. "When I tell you father will not be pleased, assume the worst case scenario."

Harry winced. "John, I swear I will not breath a word of this to another soul if it can cause this much damage. Anyways, I would never betray your trust like that or better yet, put my life in danger or Clara's." Harry positioned her right hand firmly above her heart and looked John straight in his eyes as a subtle, you can start now...

John took in a determined, slightly shaky breath and began his tale."Well...It all started a few days ago when I was called into the Headmaster's office for some news." John closed his eyes as if he were struggling to find the right words to say.

"Long story short, the teachers chose me for a scholarship for The Victorian Academy of London to sort of give me a chance to improve my grades. The actual problem began when I told father." Anger began to overwhelm John's speech, his breath became shaky and his hands were tugging at the roots of his blond hair. " Harry, the things he said about you, mom, even me. I wanted to throttle him and drive him up a wall. I couldn't let this chance pass me by, so I forged his signature to hand _something_ in to Mr. SanGeorge."

Just don't tell dad about the last part. He will go crazy and I can't deal with any more of his fury." That was when the wave of emotions fell onto of John, throwing him against the shores and repeatedly dragging him into the ocean to relive his fears.

"Oh, John." A sense of déjà vu washed over Harry as images of a younger self pleaded to her father relentlessly to be permitted to attend theatre camp only to be brutally denied, her pride pulverized into the ground. If she could help John in anyway sort himself out, perhaps Harry could find closer to the dream she had to let rot."No!"

"What?" Poor John's heart had its fair amount of scratches, scars, patches, but now with harry's exclamation, John wasn't sure he would be able to mend the gapping hole that was appearing on his heart. He believed that at least his sister would be able to understand and support him as she was going through the same torment as him. Then Harry goes and leaves her own signature on his heart despite the pain embedded in her's.

"No." Harry furiously began shaking her head and began walking closer to John. With two small but firm hands, she grabbed onto John's shirts in messy clumps and forced the boy to look into her fiery steel blue eyes.

"Whatever this scholarship business is about, you most certainly not let it go by. I refuse to watch your future go flying through the windows because of that selfish bastard." Determination and pride was written on every inch of her face as she addressed John again. "You were a bloody genius for faking his signature and you have my most sincere promise that I will not tell dad about what you did." Her grip lessened slightly as her mouth curled into a smile akin to pride and vicarious satisfaction. "Please, John, do something for yourself. Nobody else will do it for you."

In an almost inaudible voice, "Don't end up like me." Harry's eyes were

"Thank you, Harry." Nothing had to be said for John to understand where her radical understanding came from. Whether it was from their 'telepathic' bond as siblings or just shared knowledge, John would be forever in debt to her. His eyes conveyed his every emotion as they widened dramatically. Joy, surprise, content, love, all intertwined at once.

Harry need not respond, John had already turned away dazed over her last words. That was perhaps the most inspirational and motivating speech anyone --especially Harry, could have given him.

 

X

  
It was mid-summer and John was well ahead of his money mark for London.

John had been working for Heather and Rheis since early May and the young teen sincerely had no complaints. When he had arrived for his initial interview, Heather greeted him in a acid washed smock that covered a floor length flower print dress, her eyes were a piercing chromium color. Heather's smile reminded John of hot cocoa and warm blankets on cold winter nights, while Rheis on the other hand, was a rather closed off person-- until you really get to know him. Usually, around John, he would stop talking if her where in mid-conversation with anyone--including clients. More often than not, Rheis would go out of his way to avoid the teen by all means. Coming earlier to work, already settled in his back office by the time John arrived, or having Heather speak for him.

After John had been working at ROY. G. BIV for approximately a week and a half and successfully completing his training phase, Rheis showed a rather shocking side of himself. Apparently, Rheis was as gay as a flaming rainbow shooting from the mouth of a unicorn made of pink cotton candy. There where days that Rheis would come in with his regular uniform of beige cargo shorts and a polo of some sorts. Then, when John really became part of the family, the occasional handbag would materialize in Rheis' hands with a set of perfectly manicured nails. The next day, knee-length cargo shorts were traded for mid-thigh sky blue shorts with a white shirt that from the untrained eye looked unisex. Sometimes, he had on a beanie that covered the whole of his head that seemed rather fuller than usual.

But nothing prepared John for what would come his next shift starting off his third week at ROY. G. BIV. At exactly six in the morning, a faced Rheis waltzed through the door with a short pastel pink dress and hair that curled flawlessly down to his mid-back, his makeup expertly done. Without even a short pause, the man? -- walked into the back room to complete the day's work.

John had no qualms about Rheis' dressing habits and continues addressing him as his superior and even had a laugh or two when no customers were around. Heather was thrilled that John had accepted Rheis and his little secret so well and without any hesitation and she never stopped thanking him. Rheis never spoke to John about it, but the teen could see a look of appreciation and respect in the man's eyes every time they looked at each other from across the room. John could feel the warmth radiate off of Rheis with each smile or lingering glance with each conversation. John just knew that was as close as Rheis would ever get to thanking John for accepting him and not casting him aside like broken china.

Who was John to judge this poor man who simply wanted to dress as he pleases? If John was begging for people to listen to him and give him a chance, how dare he do the opposite.

John's official job was to man the cash register from six to nine before school. The hours may seem odd and useless because no self-respecting artist would venture out at the crack of dawn to get supplies, however, you would be surprised what extent those paint-crazy hippies would go through to get their hands on some pastels. On some days, John was tending to a queue of people wrapping around the front of the stores. He also had other days when only two maybe three artists would brake their sleep --or continue their sleepless night-- to get a palette or some brushes.

In his opinion, John enjoyed the days when the queue was so long that he just wanted to grab his hair and pull it out of his skull. Although it was infuriating having to tend to so many people and their idiotic request, (considering most of them are high off of their minds, for creative purposes only of course) those were the suckers for leaving extra change in John's pocket for a job well done. All it took was a dazzling smile here or a helpful tip there and he had them trapped in his web of Watson charm. Most of his surreptitious income was supplied by the usuals taking a fascination to John and who made it a point to only visit during his hours. Sometimes, when neither Heather nor Rheis where looking, a mysterious tenner would appear in his pocket donated by a mothering artist. Or after John would ring them in, the customers would _forget_ their change and rush out onto the streets.

John would earnestly try to return the bills over to their owners despite the fact he desperately needed every single sent he could gather. Luckily for him, no one would accept his offer and forced John to keep whatever sum they gave him.   
When John applied for ROY. G. BIV, his goal only entailed to cover the expense of the voyage but if he could collect enough money to actually buy materials for the flat he would be sharing or even some new clothes, mores the better.

It was only a week into August, John already had enough money to build a sturdy structure in his new life in London. John didn't want to appear at the front doors of The Victorian Academy of London with only ten quid in his pocket left over from the train station and expect to mooch off of the people around him like a leech in search of blood. No, John had too much pride and dignity to go begging around on his hands and knees for a few coins here and there. He had been taught that in order to have things in life, one must work for them to truly appreciate them. In fact, that was what John was doing with his life multiplied by three.

Instead, when John walked through the doors of the academy, he would have no need to live off of the pity of others for he had taken control of his life. John had never seen himself with such an impressive amount of money at once that was not for the needs of others. He could have cried from the overwhelming joy swelling in his heart.

John was practically glowing as he walked home from ROY. G. BIV in the late afternoon. Since his hours have been lengthened, John had more money coming his way. His hands were in his pockets as he hummed along to a tune he heard earlier over the radio. Father at first had kept John on a very tight leash once the news of the scholarship was released. These days, his father is still keeping an eye on John, but he has enough trust in the boy to let him be during the day. As long as John still provides money from his two official jobs, father was willing to let John go unscathed.

When Charles, a long time friend of John approached him on the streets that day, John knew this confrontation wasn't going to be pleasant. John had made a reluctant Charles agree to let some post be delivered to his house claiming it was just some 'army forms.' Since they have known each other since year two and Charles felt especially guilty for abandoning John after his mother's death, he had no choice but to agree. When the form asked to provided a current address, John knew he had the other boy to cover his back. However, he never expected a letter to actually come through the post. Everything was done online these days and it just seemed like a massive waste of paper and time. Taking the envelope from Charles' hands, he speeded off home and locked himself into the room after checking to see if his father was at home.

John was now presented with the white envelope that was staring at him menacingly from across the room. On the flap, a red wax seal with a monogram sat proudly and viciously waiting for John to tear the envelope apart. Who did John know that still used the post as a form of communication?

Oh.

_Oh._

**_OH._ **

So, this was the letter that detailed his caught forgery and what charges/police action would be taken. Also, in subtext, was the loss of John's dreams and the failure to defeat his father. The consideration of never accomplishing anything in his life scared John beyond belief. However, when he thought about losing to his father, John was paralyzed with terror and blinded with incompetence.

John needed to know now what his fate would be. He couldn't possibly lose to his father, not at this point. Certainly, not as far as he has gotten with all of his efforts. Of course, he feared the end of his blissful fantasy. Then yet again, what if the letter was just another piece to the puzzle of his triumph?

He might as well rip the bandage now.

He carefully sat on the edge of his unmade bed and clasped the chalky envelope in his both hands. With the release of a shaky inhale, John ripped open the wax glob and pulled the crisp, folded paper from within. His eyes closed subconsciously as he opened the trifold of paper and counted very, very, very slowly to three.

John's vision blurred with pamphlet containing the details of the schools ongoing success rate with scholars and their graduates. When he began reading the letter, it began...

_Congratulations for beings accepted into our scholarship program. You are now part of The Victorian Academy of London family and we are very excited to meet you in the fall._

John's vision became muddled. Stars began shooting across the back of his eyelids as the startled teen absorbed the information. He had been accepted into the academy despite the fraud he had committed? _There must be a catch_ , thought John as he continued to read the rest of the letter detailing the start of the term and the procedure to receive the keys to the dorm.

Quickly, he sat down on his bed, laptop placed in front of him and _finally_ bought his long awaited train ticket for the first of September. John decided he wanted to leave for the academy well before the term began but a just a while after the dorms were available to student usage. In this way, he would be acquainted with the city and not look like a lost child once the course began. He might have 'defeated' his father so far in the game only John was of the wiser, but that didn't mean his father could completely annihilate him after all. Sure, John was accepted into the academy, but he still has to manage a successful escape, leaving no clues of his whereabouts.

John had many things he had to do until the course began but he couldn't find any of them to complain about.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sory for not updating in such a long time! I put the story on hold for a while while I worked on other stories if you wanna check those out ;) Also, a huge thanks to my beta MyTravelingTeacup who puts up with my silly grammar mistakes and stupidly long sentences. Thank you if you're still reading. See ya xx

  
The day's date flashed like a blaring siren in John's hands when he awoke to his vibrating phone's alarm he had set the previous night. Rubbing his hands over the lid of his eyes to clear his vision, John took in his surroundings. It was around dawn on the day John has so desperately been awaiting. However, now that he came to terms of what lay ahead of him today, John felt a heavy weight nestle itself in his stomach.

It was now the first of September. Exactly six days before the official term began, giving John enough time to get to the academy and settled in. John had mapped out every action he would take in order to achieve a successful escape.

After John had reached a more present state of consciousness, he collected the duffle bag from under his bed, having prepared it the night before. He remembered shoving the basic necessities in means of clothes that would be considered appropriate in London. Nothing he owned would even compare to the other students, but he was at least going to make an effort not to single himself out too much. John ran into another problem soon enough since he could only carry a duffle bag with him on his travels. A massive suitcase would attract too much attention from the neighbors if he were to be seen and he simply couldn't manage the sheer weight of all the clothes.

John took one last look around his room and truly, all he did was let out a shiver followed by a sigh of relief. Now he was finally going to escape the abyss that was considered his life even though he thought all the doors were slammed in his face.

He knelt down on his knees and reached under his bed, grabbing a nondescript shoebox layered heavily with dust. John knew what would happen once he opened the lid but he was throwing caution into the wind today. At first glance, most people would think that the box contained a bunch of worthless junk, but to John, the box meant the world. When John was growing up, he would always give his mother little pieces of paper with his love scribbled in crayon. What he never knew was that his mother kept every single letter or picture John ever made for her in this same exact shoebox along with early pictures of John and herself. Harry had a box similar to his, but her's only contained family recipes passed down from their mother's side. In John's box, the last physical memories of his mother remained and he wouldn't dare leave these precious pictures in the hands of his father.

The pictures were tucked away safely in the front pocket of his duffle bag, John set for the front door and quietly shut the door from outside. Every light had been shut off in the house and John's door had been locked from the inside in case his father began looking for him. Now, John needed to get as much distance as he could from the house. If there were any early risers in the neighborhood watching John leaving with luggage, they would report the news to his father. Also, he couldn't possibly see the look in Harry's face as he left and lived his dream while she was stuck drowning her weight in alcoholic beverages. The guilt would eat away at him and he couldn't afford to stop now.

As he walked quickly, the weight of the wallet in his back pocket made John aware of the burning anticipation wearing away at his calm resolve. His train ticket and money were innocently tucked away, softly whispering how they so desperately needed to be used. That was logic John simply couldn't resist as he quickened his speed finally reaching the main street to catch a cab.

The act of hailing a cab was no easy task but he eventually managed to stop one and direct it towards the station. John felt the veil of paranoia lift, finally feeling comfortable he sank into the worn leather seats of the cab. He watched the remains of his town blur past the window and another picture he had been skimming through the day before popped into his head. It was the first time Ruth had taken both her children to the city. John had gone with her on several occasions and so had Harry, but never all three together. Ruth had tried a hand at planning their day. While John enjoyed their stop at the museum, Ruth was getting quite tired at hearing Harry's snide remarks finally taking them out to the shops. After a long day of walking, their last stop involved a cab ride throughout the city streets, surging by pedestrian life. John was still young and curious, just watching the world pass by a screen seemed like magic to the six year old boy. A reminiscent smile crept on John's face as he continued staring out of the window.

Once at the station, John paid the cabbie with exact change, and walked into the bustling mess of people. Considering the early hour, there was an excessive amount of people of all ages shuffling through terminals desperate to get home from their summer trips. The high pitched female thrumming of instructions that ran in a loop repeating the safety procedures was punctured by the wails of exhausted infants, and John found no problems keeping awake.

An embarrassing grumbling sound arose from John's stomach as he remembered he hadn't eaten since last night. He could really use some food in his stomach especially considering the prices of food in London. John spotted a kiosk a few meters away that announced warm drinks (subpar at best) and an assortment of on-the-go foods. Hitching the duffle bag higher up his shoulder, John began to walk towards the stand to make his order.John's watch read quarter after six. His train was scheduled to leave at half past seven, so John had enough time to get a light snack. As a force of habit, the runaway boy choose the most inexpensive items on the menu and found himself walking away with a scalding milky tea and a rather questionable meat pasty. Now that John had his hunger controlled, he headed towards his gate for departure getting his ticket verified on the way.

Nebulous figures passed continuously in front of John's stare while he was sat on a bench facing the trackway. He felt like a syringe of eternal fear was injected into him and now he was feeling his heart thrumming in his chest like the wings of a caged bird. Even though he had managed to make it out of the confines of his house unscathed, John still had plenty to worry about. For one. Harry Sure, she did what she fancied most of the time and paid no attention to John's needs, but under the glazed, impersonal stare, John felt the connection run between them. The common inspiration to continue living and hold on to their vices despite the pain it inflicted on them and everyone else. Regardless, the memory of their mother united the two siblings despite their differences and arguments, keeping them with both feet planted on the ground.

Harry might have lost her way on the beaten path of life, but John had no doubt she could care for herself if Father started a fight. John had long considered how his burden would fall on the next child of the family and now Harry would have to carry this world of pain upon her shoulders. Father would only intensify his frustration and fury on Harry now that John was gone, especially if he sensed she had a hand in his escape. After all, Father needed a victim that was weak and wouldn't fight back to his barking commands. Harry was just that, she had a deep seeded need to submit and obliged when commanded by their father. Her submissive side demanded the constant approval of Father since she had nobody to guide her in life. Neither John nor Clara were enough for her. No, she needed the barking commands of their father to soothe her naturally dominant persona when sober. So,in Harry's constant state of intoxication it made her a very subjective target that would forget any events the morning after. John feared how his father would used that to his advantage and what damage he would cause to Harry both physically and emotionally. John felt extremely guilty for actually leaving despite Harry's encouragement. She might have been willing to have taken the risk but she had no idea what she was getting herself into.

However, Harry also had an advantage to her side which would act as a wild card against their father. No one besides John knew that once Harry made her mind, she was unchangeable. John had no doubts that if Harry wanted to get her act together, she would be a fierce force in nature. She was a Watson after all and not all Watson's were failures. John himself would be living proof once he graduated from the academy.

An intense gust of wind surged through the air blowing through John's hair and rustling every loose object in its path. The train made quite an arrival as it slowly halted waiting for the passengers to board and be on its merry way to London. John has only ever been a train once before and he had barely been over the age of five when he boarded the first time with his mother. At least John knew what to expect as he sat by the window in the last row of the train car.

The whistle screamed, sending a puff of smoke into the air. Just like that, the wheels began slowly inching forwards until they were speeding down the tracks. John watched the shift of the bustling city convert into a picturesque scene of an English forest from behind the pane of glass. Buildings and houses all crowded together morphed into the delicate beauty of nature. John took a deep breath and rested his head against the window. He collected the pictures from the front pocket of his bag one by one in his hands longingly wondering if he remembered when each one was taken. The one that caught his attention was a picture taken when he was eight during a late autumn evening out with his mum. Ruth's cheeks were flushed a heavy pink and her golden hair was flying in the cool breeze. John was sat upon her lower back with his arms above his head. He was being held snugly by her arms to prevent him from toppling over and never had he felt so safe. Their smiles were so radiant and youthful that the icy day seemed so warm now in his memories.His body was demanding to be heard as a wave of exhaustion washed over him. After a ferocious yawn escaped his mouth and his eyelids began to droop, John finally closed his eyes knowing that once they were to open again, he would be in strange territory.

After a restful train ride, John arose from his seat with a nasty crick in his neck and grabbed his luggage from besides him. He longed for the train that left him at King's Cross station in London. Now, John couldn't help but feel like a speck of sand on a beach, lost, trapped, abandoned. Torrents of people were surrounding him on all sides, dwarfing the short boy even more. Cars whizzed past on the streets, honking impatiently to get their way. Buildings scraped the sky, each one surpassing the other. What was John doing in a place like THIS?

Once the initial shock of London's splendor began to wear off, John timidly walked to the curb to hail a cab. Five empty cabs flew past him before he finally managed to stop one. John rattled the address of the school and once again found himself staring out of the window. Restaurants and high-end stores plagued every London street with their illuminating signs, and there were occasional quaint stores nestled between the looming buildings. If John listened close enough, he could here the inner workings of London. The footsteps of the people represented a steady heartbeat beat, never resting. Trains constantly in motion below the streets, rushing through her veins like blood. London was breathing beneath John, whispering her secrets of hidden treasure and adventures. Spilling promises of finding a reason to live for laced within her words, subtle but powerful.

The cab arrived at The Victorian Academy of London after a fifteen minute journey, leaving John stranded at a roundabout in front of a massive building from perhaps the seventeenth century. Intricate brickwork framed the windows, giving the monstrosity a spacious feel. A few students were already beginning to register and settle in lugging what looked like heavy and expensive suitcases around the campus. It seemed that John wasn't the only one who thought of starting the year earlier but it made him feel even more self-conscious. He had secretly hoped that with an early start, John would've avoided the posh kids coming from their houses in the country. Essentially, saving all embarrassment on his part and not drawing any attention to himself. Now, John was definitely in danger of attracting attention with his sole duffle bag and hand-me-down clothing

John noticed that some people were starting to stare at him, so he trudged towards the front door of the building. His gaze never left the path his feet made in fear of accidentally making eye contact with someone superior than him, so basically everyone in this bloody school.

The dated building's whirling vents released a constant freeze, and though it was the middle of summer, John was biting his lip to keep from trembling as he aimlessly followed the bright orange arrows leading to find the main office. Once inside the office, the difference between his old school and this was stunning. The secretaries' desk was silkily polished in a light varnish, offering a reflection to any object near tis surface. Leather seats were lined against the walls for the leisure of the visitors, not those uncomfortable, springy chairs John had to endure at the last office he visited. Another astounding difference, there was more than one secretary working on paper works and such. Poor Tricia had to commandeer a whole office by herself, but here there were several women being paid to listen to students and parents complain about their problems. John was greeted by one of the secretaries weathered by the years of work. After he verified his name and presented the proper paper work, John soon found himself holding a map of the campus, a timetable of his classes, and the keys to his dorm. The complete registration process perhaps took fifteen minutes at most and John even saw the silver-haired lady pull the illegitimate forms from a file. Pure disbelief kept surging through John consciousness. How did his plan progress this far without anyone the wiser? Whatever divine force was helping John, he most certainly wasn't going to question it.

The senior woman told John to drop off his baggage in his room and explore the campus at his leisure. Heeding her advice, John retraced his steps back through the hallway to the front door. He was absolutely ready to explode of joy but he first needed to settle in to his dorm which was apparently a five minute walk from the main building. Even though he had a map of the campus placed directly in his hands, John felt as if he were reading Mandarin--backwards. On his first attempt, John swore he was following every turn correctly, until he found himself staring straight at the dance center, making a certain crowd of teenage boys stare at him provocatively. Shaking the blush off of his face, he tried to reposition the map trying to find his way from where he stood. This time, he was standing in front of the athletics building. Not as embarrassing as his last try, but it still wasn't his dorm. Every possible mistake he could have possibly made to reach the Westminster Hall, John probably committed or invented.

After a tiring twenty minute scavenger hunt, the teen was finally stood inside the confines of the three story dorm. Going by the number on his key -- _221B_ \-- John assumed his room would be on the second floor. Since it was one of the older dormitories, a lift wasn't available for his disposal. John climbed the stairs with as much self-control as he could manage because with each step, his expressions got even more shameful to watch.

The corridor had doors located on both sides of the hall, decorated with a rather tacky wallpaper of flowers and random squiggles. Brass numbers set at eyesight, marked the progression of room numbers on the floor. John sighed with happiness when the fist room he saw was 201A, confirming his presumption of his room's placement.

At the very end of the hallway, John located his new home for the next year and simply stood outside the door, staring straight at the worn door handle. If anyone where to have been casually leaving their room and had seen John, they would have thought he needed a trip to A&E. The keys shook in his hands as he tried placing them in the keyhole, but his tremors made him miss, scratching the surface of the dull colored knob. His heart is galloping faster than a horse on racing day within the cavity of his chest. All the negative words his father has ever said surged like a tornado in John's head that slowly receded into a gentle breeze. He release a shaky breath when he finally heard the tumblers click into place and pushed the door opened.

Upon entering the sitting room, John assumed his roommate had yet to arrive and that he was alone for now. John didn't want to admit it but he was secretly pleased for the lack of company. All day, he had been surrounded by people and sometimes, John just wanted to be alone. Especially when he was adjusting to such a major transition in his life.

The only means of furnishing appeared to be two mismatched seats placed directly in front of each other. From the corner of his eyes, John spotted a tiled kitchen containing the bare necessities for a pair of male high school students. As decrepit as the microwaved and hob seemed, it would have to do. After all, John wasn't exactly a master chef.

The only room left to observe was the bedroom area. M _ight as well start unpacking now, John thought. No need to show my roommate how little I've got._ When he entered the only room partitioned by a door, John was in for a surprise. A cardboard box occupied most of the space on one of the beds, leaving John no choice but to choose the other. John slowly inched closer to the box as if it contained explosives and when he read **_'Do not touch'_** scribbled all over the surface, he was slightly convinced the box held a weapon of sorts. The blond teen was never one for curiosity so he purposely set his bag and began to sort through his belongings.

Inside the bag, everything was strewn together in a tangled mess of clothes. When John dumped everything on the bed, he took inventory of what he packed earlier. Soon, there were a few piles of folded clothes spread across his bed. John couldn't help but think how pathetic he would look all year with the same variation of clothes. In total, counting the shirt he was wearing, John had six casual shirts for comfortable weather, indoors or out. A jacket he bought at a thrift store for the brisker seasons. And he only had four jumpers --thankfully each one a different color-- and two trousers for the colder months. Surely, there would be a point in which his peer and teacher would catch on to the stench of lower class he seemed to perspire. He could keep up his façade up for a bit with a bit of combination variation but how long would that give him. It was bad enough he was a scholarship kid and would receive enough scorn for that, now he had to go rub in the fact he actually couldn't afford any clothes. John could ultimately buy more pieces to his wardrobe with his pocketful of cash, but that would be a frivolous use of money. He was smart enough to know that taking that route would come back to bite him in the arse later on.

In the bedroom, there were two small drawers meant for clothes, John went over to the wooden chest closest to his bed and started placing his --meager piles of-- clothes in a prim fashion. For John Watson, that was all the unpacking needed to get settled into a new life hundreds of miles away from home.

Since the flat had no other luxuries but the padded chairs and suspicious box, John sat in a faded red and green seat and opened a book he had meant to read for months. The book still had the crisp smell of fresh paper. Soft binding cracked beneath John's hand as he ruffled through the pages. He flipped to the first page of text and immersed himself into the minds of the characters. John alternated between feeling the devastation of the monster and the greed of Dr Frankenstein, choosing which one was the real monster at heart.

The sun was staring to slowly fade away from the sky when he heard the flat door swing open, the vibration ringing throughout the flat. John turned to see the intruder and was met with the sight of a murderous looking teen. The boy's height alone was intimidating to John (he was compact, not short) but there was such untamed intensity in the verdigris eyes, John couldn't help but shrink into his seat. Raven ringlets framed his slender, chiseled face that despite the blatant anger was as white as porcelain. His lips were pulled back into a vicious snarl, teeth exposed to John like a predatory animal, standing in a slight crouch.

John rose to his feet, flustered and frightened trying to compose himself. He straightened the creases in his clothes before addressing the livid youth. "Excuse me, but are you supposed to be here? My name's John, John Watson. Oh, so are you my flatmate?"

The other boy didn't take the question quite well as he slammed the door shut propelling himself towards John. Pale hands were shaking furiously as if the lanky teen were deciding whether to disfigure John or not. "You are awfully mistaken, _John_ , so let me make this clear to you." said he in a clipped tone. "This has been my _private_ room going on three years now. I don't plan on sharing with anyone soon, so if you could see your way out that would be great."

John held up his hands in conciliation because sometimes fighting with someone while they're in a feral state isn't always the best idea (thanks Harry. Oh and how could I forget about you Father).

John thought about trying a friendlier approach. "Mate, I was only following the rules. They sent me to this room, so here I am. I had no idea this was your room so don't take take it out on me." John noticed he wasn't accomplishing anything with the cordial act. " For god's sake, I don't even know your name."

A fresh wave of rage washed into the thespian teen as he theatrically rolled his eyes followed by a hand on his waistline (okay, this has to be practiced somehow). "I can --no, I will take it out on whomever I deem fit. Considering the fact that you're the cause to my distress, you, John shall be my victim." John now knew how a petulant, incorrigible child stuck in a freakishly tall body looked like. "By the way, _mate,_ the name's Sherlock Holmes."

Always the peacemaker, John tried his hand in offering solutions to solve their current crisis. So John put as much hope he dared to show on his face and tried to reason, "Maybe if we just go to the office and talk to one of the board members, they'll consider putting me in another room.

With a sardonic wave, Sherlock gestured towards the door and spoke with a sneer. "Good plan. As I said, you know your way out. Pack whatever rat-infested clothes you've brought with you and leave. I won't take on a charity case roommate, actually I won't take a roommate at all. Good-bye!"

John's entire face fell. His mouth hung open and John had no choice but to close his eyes in shame (or embarrassment, he really couldn't tell what he was feeling). He hadn't even been at the academy for a day and his secret has already been uncovered by an hell raising posh arsehole. **_Great._**

In fact, now that John truly began absorbing Sherlock's words he noticed how wrong he'd been. What John had been feeling all along hadn't been shame. No. It was rage, unadulterated rage sparking through his veins, burning away at the last shreds of temper he had left. How could Sherlock have the gall to waltz in and terrorize someone who hadn't done anything to personally wrong him? Best of all, Sherlock claimed he knew how bad John had it, how poor he was and exactly what pile of filth he rolled in. Based on what?-- the lack ofJohn's hundred pound shirt tucked in to thousand pound trousers. Oh, was it the lack of a polished public school accent? At least he had more manners than the blasphemous boy.

"What did you say?" John had already started to peel away his considerate, amicable exterior to reveal a turbulent and spiteful John Watson. The flush of anger was creeping up John's neck, tinting his ears a heated red.

With the same condescending tone, Sherlock continued to goad John. It sounded like Sherlock was proud of the aggravation he'd caused John and hadn't phased at the tempered blonds anger in the slightest.

"I'm quite sure you were able to hear me the first time, also I absolutely abhor repeating myself. On the other hand, since you barely attended any of your classes last school year and losing a good percentage of braincells, I'll take pity and repeat myself." A taunting gleam sparkled in Sherlock's cruel gaze. "It's a well known fact that all scholarship students have to be low-life idiots to be accepted to a school of such caliber. Something about showing tax payers they care about the students in need, or whatever that means."

Sherlock was desperately hoping to see John take the bait. Waiting for John to react to all of the abuse, all of the cruelty Sherlock had just spouted in the last minute or so.

 _How clever,_ thought John, _He's mocking me. The skinny git is playing head games with me, Sherlock wants me to throw the first punch. What a bastard, albeit a genius bastard._

Sherlock was trying to ignite the flame of pent up provocation within John. A small flicker on the wick of a candle that has been yearning to be lighten for years with Harry and her drunkenness and Father and his stupidity. Sherlock would hands down win over the crowd looking like the victim if John were to release a first (and very well deserved) punch without proper motive. How bloody stupid would it sound to the Headmaster if his defense was 'He started it. Sherlock called me an idiot.'

 _Think John._ How could he play along with Sherlock and his psychological games without giving too much away? Whether it was what he knew about Sherlock already or his previous life, John felt he should keep that information to himself.

So John let out a long-winded breath after he counted to ten. He schooled his face into one of confusion but intrigued as he spoke to Sherlock. "You say I'm a scholarship student." John raised an eyebrow, the tables were turned and now he was challenging Sherlock. "How could you possibly know that?"

Sherlock stepped back obviously startled at John's change in demeanor. He tried to pass it off as a deliberate change in position wrapping his gangly arms around a proud puffed chest. John was not fooled by the bravado for he saw the shades of uncertainty painted amongst the blues and greys in Sherlock's eyes.

John's eyebrow rose even higher, his lips were pursed curiously. Any questions Sherlock may have had disappeared from his piercing grey eyes as he began to graze over John's body in a calculating glare.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Easy. Your clothes says it all, poor quality and over usage, not to mention the generic brands you're wearing at this moment. The rigid creases on your pants practically scream of the fact you've just ridden on a train for several hours. All other student travel by car therefore they have the tell-tale seatbelt mark instead."

Sherlock crinkled his nose in disgust as emphasis before he continued. "John, didn't anyone tell you that eating a meat pasties at the train station is never the right way to start your morning? Shame, because it could've prevented the gravy from staining probably the only shirt you own."

John felt deflated but he held his position nonetheless. He wasn't going to let some pretentious snob ruin everything he's worked very hard to get for almost a year. "Just because I traveled here by train and chose not to own own shirts that cost more than the school's tuition. It gives you no bloody reason to assume I'm anything more than just another student, especially go around pointing fingers and calling me a scholarship student." John was incredibly exhausted with Sherlock, all he really wanted to do now was get some fresh air.

Sherlock loosened his posture and shared a horrific sneer with John. "I'm not assuming you're a scholarship student. No, that would be too nice of me." said Sherlock, voice dripping with derision. " What I am doing though, is accusing you of being a monetary leech of the upper classes. Using the wealth of others to achieve something in life and preserve your twisted interpretation of pride intact." Sherlock's face read, _Go ahead, it's your move, John_. _Show me what you've got._

For John, time stood still and the Earth ceased to rotate beneath his feet. Short, unstable gasps of air entered his lungs as he tried to glom onto the last iotas of control he had left. John felt as if his heart had forgotten what to do, leaving him alone with Sherlock. To fend for himself on an uneven playing field.

John had been trapped, he felt appalled, and threatened, but above all, afraid. John was afraid that Sherlock had wormed his way into John's fears and found a home between Harry's beer bottles and his absent father's paychecks.

After all, that had been John's greatest fear ever since he'd received the offer because everything Sherlock had said was true. Shockingly so. John, in a sense was feeding his dreams off of the money of the rich. Yes, the results he received were products of his own actions, but if he hadn't been presented with these circumstances, he would have never been able to amount to anything.

John's eyes grew misty but he wouldn't, he couldn't let Sherlock reduce him into tears. His own father repeatedly failed to make John cry after their mum's death, so John refused to show how sore of a topic this was.

"Fine! What if I am here on a scholarship? What's so terrible about that?" John violently threw his hands up in resignation. "Its not like it's your tax dollars are being wasted on funding my education. I didn't come here to fight with a snobby git, so bugger off. Or do I have to ask your servants to do that for you?"

John had reached his boiling point, his rage had reached an all time high. Nonetheless, Sherlock cocked his head to the side, raven curls swung in the same direction crooning. "I'm under the impression that you're unaware of the disadvantages of being a victim of sympathy to the rich. Clearly it's something you've thought about since you've distressed for some time now." Sherlock stepped closer to John trying to use his height advantage to turn things into his favor.

Sherlock licked his lips taking delight of the fear on John's face. " Well, I'm hardly ever wrong, so perhaps take my advice. Pack your bags and go back to the alcoholic sister you've left back at the farm or wherever it is you came from. Tell her to lay off the cigarettes if she wants to keep on the bottle longer. Now, leave me alone."

John lowered his head and despite the irrevocable fury he felt, he couldn't help the demented chuckle that escaped his mouth. He quickly covered his lips with the back of his hands, but the rupture of the laugh was inevitable.

It wasn't the fact that Sherlock, a complete stranger mind you, was insulting John and accusing him of being a leech upon the rich. It also wasn't Sherlock's disrespectful mention of his sister and the double life she lives that made John crack up. John had been amused at the amount of pompous cockiness one human being can contain within them. It was bloody ridiculous, (or hilarious, it depends) that John believed he'd discovered how to diagnose the symptoms of a smug, posh git from a mile away.

Undeniably, Sherlock was baffled, Sherlock Holmes had been taken by surprise. He'd thrown the lowest blow anyone could have possibly dared and here the poor kid stood laughing. Was John that stupid not to recognize when he was being made fun of? Sherlock constantly questioned the rest of humanity but now he had no doubts about the drops in survival rates.

"Why are you laughing?" A prominent scowl marred the pallor face of Sherlock for the proclaimed genius didn't take mocking too well. "Stop _laughing_!"

When John sobered himself up from the wild cocktail of emotions, he looked at Sherlock in wonder. "First, it was the scholarship and then you know about my sister. Not just that, I have a sister but you know she's an alcoholic." said John crossing his arms across his chest. However this time, it wasn't an act of hostility but an action of thoughtfulness. "How _do_ you do it?"

Sherlock thought if he indulged John with a watered down explanation of his 'party trick.' Maybe then John would realize the reason Sherlock was synonymous with freak and leave once and for all. " Everyone has the ability to see in life but they do not go beyond and observe."

 _Okay, now we're getting somewhere,_ thought John as he nodded in mute understanding. Sherlock made sense (sort of, maybe.) but he still had some trouble following his train of thought. "What's the difference between _'seeing'_ and _'observing'_?" John shrugged but hoped Sherlock would willingly elaborate on what he'd said.

Sherlock scoffed offendedly. "Idiot." John was about to protest but Sherlock waved his hand dismissively and began his barraging of words. "Don't be so offended. Most humans are, idiots I mean. I should have known better than to assume you understood the simplicity of my words."

John tried to protect what little pride he had left, "It's not that I don't understand your ridiculous theory or whatever. I just don't see a big difference between the two. In my head, they mean sort of the same thing." John felt small knowing that Sherlock had won the upper hand in the conversation.

In that instant, John saw a glimmer of excitement flash throughout Sherlock's eyes before it went on to be extinguished faster than it had appeared. "That is where you're wrong, John. For example, you can see the shirt you're wearing. Am I right?"

Sherlock motioned towards John shirt in an aloof manner. John nodded once to assure Sherlock he was paying attention and let the deductions begin. "However, if I were to observe the distinct smell of cigarettes and women's perfume, I can deduce that you live with a younger female, a sister most likely. Now, how do I know its not your mother? "

Sherlock circled around John much like a shark warning it's prey before it attacks. "Perhaps because of the excessive stretch in the upper chest where a women's breast is placed. So she must wear bra padding. Weird, it's not everyday you see grown women with their bras stuffed with foam padding."John had tried to hold on as long as he could, but at the end he tilted his head to see what Sherlock was blabbering about. The boy had been right. His shirt was unusually loose around his shoulders and chest area, also it reeked of a night out at a pub. " A mother wouldn't just walk into her son's room to steal one of his shirts before she goes off to meet one of her girlfriends that although might not support her addiction, won't don't anything to stop it." The way Sherlock managed to say the last few words made John's skin crawl with an uneasy sense of impotence.

John had no words to explain what he had heard just a moment ago. His small, asinine brain had been incapable of comprehending the mechanics, the logics behind Sherlock's magnificent brain. Initially, John could've sworn Sherlock was an incredibly thick, pompous arse. Now, he felt impressed, dare he say, mind-blown by the other boys gift.

The room was silent. Both boys were sizing each other up trying to see who would be the first to break, to see who was the weakest link.

After a handful of seconds, Sherlock's impatient nature overcame his bravado. "Was I wrong?" And the prize for the most smug bastard goes to --Sherlock Holmes. Everyone else can go home now.

John refused to answer Sherlock's question, so he asked one for himself. "How do you know about the girlfriends or the addiction?"

Again with the theatrics, Sherlock rolled his eyes before staring down at John intensely, not giving a chance for either of them to look away. "I merely observed you when I walked in. It seems like our whole conversation revolves around your inability to understand my superior mind. Also, the advantage I have over other humans in the way I process data."

When Sherlock still saw confusion in John's eyes, he caved. The simpleton's mind was just to strong for him to overcome when he was being intruded like this. "There are relatively new lipstick stains on the collar of your shirt. Could mean a casual night out but you're not the type to have flings, you like commitment. That would leave room for the possibility of some sort of sentimental attachment but your phone dates back to 2006. There's no way you could maintain a relationship with a girl your age, much less anyone with the phone you have and the fact you've just moved two? three hours away from home.

"Your hands. Most importantly, your fingertips aren't tinted yellow." John subconsciously brought his hands up for inspection as Sherlock continued rambling. "You never see an alcoholic's face without spider nevus, yet your face has barely any visible wrinkles or pores. But if I were to judge what you do by the smell of your shirt, I would say you're a chain smoker and a longterm alcoholic."

John felt fireworks and explosions set off in his head. Adrenaline zipped through his veins as he absorbed every single word Sherlock had said. He knew he should have felt insulted, exposed, embarrassed. But how could he? That was the most brilliant thing he'd ever seen in the entirety of his seventeen years of life.

Sherlock stood there with a coy smile but then John went ahead and opened his mouth. "That was...brilliant! Simply incredible, Sherlock." The coquettish smile dissipated from Sherlock's face turning into a scowl. John was slightly taken aback at Sherlock's startling transition in character as he thought that praise would stroke Sherlock's already enlarged ego.

He'd finally got Sherlock to react, John smiled widely, twin eyes sparkling with mirth. Every words he'd said had been true, John wasn't trying to guile Sherlock and his eyes said it all.

It had not been the greatest of compliments Sherlock has ever received mostly for the fact John was illiterate (and mindless, however, John was slowly proving Sherlock wrong) but John felt still felt proud of himself for taking the first step. The first step towards building a somewhat complaisant environment. Personally, for John, this was an extremely enormous breakthrough, allowing another person to see his feelings (no matter how insignificant that feeling may be) laid out so openly. He had no wall to hide behind in the case anything went wrong now that Sherlock knew what he really thought about the genius' deductions.

Sherlock had turned glacial, inhuman and John swore he felt goosebumps on his skin as the temperature lowered inside the room. Verdigris irises overgrew the bottomless, black pupils. The tiny pinpoints within a vast canvas of evanescent color were trained directly at John. Sherlock's eyebrows arched high in bewilderment and his teeth dug into his bottom lip hard enough to break skin.

Waves rolled throughout the room sending signals of mixed emotions. Reluctance was an emotion Sherlock knew well and now the emotion was radiating out of his body to react with John's overall confusion. All of their emotions were being released back into the tense atmosphere of **_221B_**. An explosion was imminent if one of them didn't do something to stop the suffocating pressure.

Sherlock refused to reply to John's compliment as he stormed out the door. A deafening sound reverberating throughout the room leaving John breathless (even more so, can you imagine).

His lungs refused to cooperate with his brain and he was starting to feel the early onset symptoms of a panic attack. He had no bloody clue where he was going to start calming himself down because quite frankly, today had been a long day for John Watson. In any other circumstance, he would slowly count down from five and then think of a place, maybe a memory that reminded him why he continue on with his life. Why he bothered putting up with his father. Why he bothered waking up at the crack of dawn to pick up Harry from god-knows-where so she could sober up for her next round of drinks.

John always tried to pull up hazy memories of warm weekends covered in batter. Their cupcakes were rising beautifully in the oven and John was practically on his knees begging Mummy to lick the spoon.

Sometimes he thought about the time Mummy took Harry and him to an ice cream shop where they laughed so hard, chocolate ice cream came dribbling out of Harry's mouth. Which in turn made John cackle even harder and unfortunately for him, vanilla ice cream went up his nose when Harry shoved his spoon onto his face.

Nothing John remember from his pleasant youth brought him solace from his current state of shock. Because all John could picture when he closed his eyes was the cold, mechanical stare Sherlock had subjected him to minutes ago.

The way the charcoal undertones in his eyes flawlessly blend into the pale green was enough to freeze the soul of anyone who dare watch. If Sherlock was willing and managed to thaw his heart from the chuck of ice it is now, he would realize the opportunities he's missing. Nevertheless, Sherlock might be a genius but he is blind to everything that is sentiment and human necessities. Sherlock was destined to stay forever frozen within the hollow shell of his.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After the dawn of the dinosaurs, I appear with another update for you guys that are awesome enough to still muddle through my writing. Thank you so much for joining me along on this journey, so buckle up for the next chapter of A Name On Paper! 
> 
> Warning: Mary/John conversation so yeah. Nothing major and it won't go anywhere but don't say I didn't warn you. Also, any grammar/spelling mistakes are my mistakes so you know who to blame.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

  
After Sherlock's _stunning_ performance in 221B, John thought it would be best to get some fresh air perhaps clear his head in the process. Remembering to grab his keys, John strolled through Westminster Hall and aimlessly began wondering the streets near campus grounds. John made the executive decision to not use the map, he already had had enough mind games for the day, no need to add any more. So when he stood in front of a quaint café, he felt a sense of pride he had been lacking for many years. _Finally! John mentally cheered himself on having a rare moment of self-appreciation. And this round goes to, the one and only, John Watson. One point for you fine sir. Take that sodding map with your twisted sense of directions._

When he opened the frosted glass doors, a cool breeze carrying the fumes of fresh baked pastries greeted John as he made his way to read the menu board. Even though he was almost certain he was going to order a plain cup of coffee, the curiosity got the best of him. A black chalkboard was scribbled in different colors detailing food items using quirky monickers. Café Diem offered an eclectic variety of drinks for a small establishment, John was certainly impressed with what he saw.

A freckled girl with messy golden hair took John's order. He was desperate for the hot wave of caffeine to crash rampantly through his veins. To get his first cliché crossed off of his London to-do list, he decided that ordering the largest size of coffee would do the trick. Not only would it give him a taste of what his life would be during exam season, but it also hid the tremors that made it impossible for him to actually finish anything. He could usually feel the anxiety make a home inside of his bones, staying dormant and waiting for John to tire himself. To wear himself out so much he was incapable of fighting back to the constant ticking in his head, or the restlessness that bubbled within, not even the odd words that attacked him at random. Caffeine acted as a mediator in his 'condition' with the bonus of not being an illegal drug. It could be considered a drug if taken in excess but John knew his limits, or he likes to think he does.

John smiled gratefully when the barista handed him the coffee in record time. John looked around the café and found the atmosphere aesthetically pleasing. Why not enjoy my coffee here? John asked himself with a nonplussed shrug. Café Diem offered very limited seating since it was --dare he say-- a hole-in-the-wall establishment. There were four tables --all of them occupied by the way-- and a booth tucked away in the far right corner. As John approached the booth, he saw how the seats weren't as padded as they should be and that the wooden table was missing the lacquer that prevented permanent stains. With a weighed groan, John sat in the booth and tried to make himself comfortable on the skeletal seats.

The steady heat of his drink bled through the material of his cup. It slowly calmed the frazzled nerve endings on the insides of his hands, he began to see the shadow of a light. John closed his eyes, and the light vanished, it escaped his reach and arctic blue eyes began to replace the warmth of the light. Clenched fist lay tightly wrapped around a lithe chest, a posture so hostile, so cold for a teen. Gnarled lips, thin, tense as they spewed wicked words in his direction. The images terrified John. They were atrocious thoughts that would've normally scared John but he felt thrilled, intrigued even at getting to uncover the truth of Sherlock Holmes.

Every misstep, every mistake, word left unsaid could cause an explosion of fierce emotions that left no hearts intact. Yet, John was willing to tag along because it would be different, so different from all the heartbreaks he's gone through before. At least this one, John was subjecting himself, placing his mind and body on the firing line so he won't get bored. Yes, John had a twisted take on entertainment.

Sherlock confused John profusely, and that's exactly what John noticed had attracted him to the incorrigible boy's attitude. That must've been the only possible explanation for his reaction when Sherlock had laid his life out as if it were the day's special and then thought it would've been appropriate to add his comments. He was unpredictable unlike everyone else he had the misfortune to cross paths with in his life. Sherlock was a hurricane with his winded character and storm colored eyes. He definitely had the temper of a hurricane that's for sure.

When he bursted through the doors of the flat and laid those thundering eyes on him, all of his outrage showered throughout the room, soaking John with all of his unadulterated anger. Sherlock could've easily fought with him. Knocked him out cold with the height difference going in his advantage. However, Sherlock resorted to using John's past to terrorize him. Instead of insulting his 'new flat mate', Sherlock had managed to impress John even further and prove how different the world could be outside of the four walls that imprisoned him.

John found it impossible for Sherlock to be real. The reason for John's disbelief was simple, Sherlock defied all of the rules John had established during his life, every promised he had made after his mother's death to protect not only him but even the drunken mess of Harry. The fact that he had only know Sherlock for seconds before Sherlock had begun to run his mouth made John brim with a fire that had been extinguished for many year.

Initially, he hadn't been offended when Sherlock spoke clinically about his personal life with that tone of entitlement and usage of vile words. But when he brought Harry into the conversation it didn't seem like a fair fight. She wasn't there to defend herself and John wasn't sure he would do such a good job either.

 _Even though he's completely right_ , John thought rather dejectedly, _doesn't mean he had the right to say what's on his mind_. John found diagnosed himself as officially torn. On one side, he'd wished Sherlock's deductions would never end. They were so interesting and unlike anything he's every seen, pure brilliance. But on the other hand, it hadn't felt particularly great to have the slurs directed towards you.

When Sherlock's got further into his deduction, John recalled the expression of curiosity, not disgust on how he tried to hide his lower class status and lack of family hierarchy. And it remain on his face when Sherlock explained how he uses inconsequential details tor tie the information together. John definitely needed to take a moment to breathe.

It had never occurred to John to observe. Life could have provided him with answers, the ones he had been searching for since the lights began to flicker and finally blew out. He wanted to rip his hair out for being so stupid or rip Sherlock's hair out for being so loathsome. And now John had no words to describe how confused he felt towards the end of their conversation. Sherlock had gone from a snarky boy with feral prowess to a frozen statue lost in the ashes of time.

John thought he had disconnected himself with the rest of humanity until he heard a soft cough come from beside him. Startled, John broke his intense gaze on the coffee lid and searched for the noise. What he had least expected was to find a girl smiling down at him from outside the booth. Her sapphire eyes were framed by fluttering eye lashes as she looked at John vivaciously. Her cheeks were were dusted in a rosy color painting her lily white skin into an elegant picture. Her platinum hair was cut short and smoothed behind her ears and John immediately perked up and straightened his back on the booth. The girl chuckled without reserve and kept a confident smile n her face .

Setting a cup of tea on the table, she slid into the booth across from him. He saw her wince once she noticed how stiff the seats were but she gave no signs of leaving. The seconds passed like water through his fingers, and he reminded himself to thank whatever god had helped him that day when she decided to start the conversation. "I hope I'm not intruding. You looked like you could use some company. So, here I am. Company." She shrugged her shoulders and gave John a mischievous grin.

"Oh, I was just thinking. You're not interrupting anything. Well, nothing important, really." John put on his most convincing smile and prayed that his guest would believe his weak response. "I wouldn't mind some company." He didn't feel the need to have an intimate conversation with a stranger (albeit a gorgeous stranger) when he honestly didn't even know where to begin.

She smiled slyly, "Don't strain yourself to hard, wouldn't want you to break something. Do I need to be worried about the day you're required to do some real thinking, or will you give me a some warning?" The smug expression was still imprinted on her face. John let out a bark of laughter, his face becoming red from the shortness of breath. It had been an age since he's smiled at anything genuinely. It felt truly incredible how the expansion of his diaphragm and the exertion of his hippocampus can distract him from the fiery pits of chaos in his stomach. Fluttering breaths of bliss landed on John's skin like delicate butterflies. Each, a results of the peals of laughter he dared share with the girl.

Their laughter had settled down, and a pleasing feeling nestled itself deep into his bones. Silently, it creeped throughout his limbs, stopping the ticking clock of his anxiety. Melting the frigid movements and erasing the intense glares. John surreptitiously looked across the table to meet a crinkled smile. He quickly lowered his gaze back down to the table with a scintillating crimson color spread on his cheeks. John was embarrassed he had been caught staring at the beautiful girl before him. In all actuality, John was waiting for her to get up and leave at any moment now.

Seconds turned into minutes, and there she sat, patiently waiting for him to respond. When John saw he hadn't put her off with his obsessive staring, he dared himself to look up. "I do, too."

The girl was confused as she processed his comment and he mentally slapped himself for being so daft. "I mean, I regret the day I'll have to do any actual thinking. My brain might end up splattered on the walls and I don't fancy cleaning it up." John shared a timid smile as she softly giggled and covered her mouth with the back of her hands. The creases by her eyes returned, however, less prominently and John found himself falling for it's distinctive beauty. John sipped on his cooling coffee trying to hide the foolish grin on his face.

"I don't think I've introduced myself." She held her hand out to John, "I'm Mary. Mary Morstan. " John stretched his hand to meet her's and marveled at the warmth of her skin against his.

John released Mary's hand hesitantly, he had wanted to stay within the reassuring warmth of her skin. "John Watson." He smiled bashfully and took a sip of his drink to hide the deepening blush. Mary's eyes sparkled like twin diamonds from between the creases of her eyes. Her eyes reminded John of memorable moments spent with his mother. When they would lay out on the grass in their backyard gazing at the constellations in the night sky. And when his mum would ask him for help setting up the tent because his sister refused to get her hands dirty. Or when Harry would try to distract him after they had set up the campfire so his marshmallows would burn. Mary's eyes were so different from Sherlock's, his eyes said cold, detached, lifeless, but John had a feeling there was another message Sherlock's eyes wished to convey.

Mary seemed to have a thoughtful look on her face before she spoke again. "Sometimes I wish I could change my name to something special, you know? The name Mary sounds so senile."

John almost choked on the coffee he had been drinking. He felt more at ease with Mary, so he went about answering with what they call 'Watson wit'. "Looks like we're stuck on the same boat. The name John isn't exciting either. I mean, how many of the Popes have been named John?"

When Mary snorted at his last comment, John thought this is what it must feel like to win the lottery. "If you and me are on the same boat, that means I have a partner to travel the seas of boring names, yeah?" Mary drank from her cup for the first time. Her eyebrows formed perfect arches as she looked at John over the brim of her café cup.

"Of course. It's not everyday you meet a fellow member of the exclusive 'what-year-did-our-parent-think-they-were-in club." He couldn't remember the last time he had been this free, this confident with anyone, not even Harry. And here he was, forgetting about the rest of the world and solely focusing on himself, Mary, and sometimes the café. A massive amount of weight had been lifted off of his shoulders. Now he was just worried if it could fall back into place once the spell of toasted arabic beans and creamer was gone.

Mary giggled animatedly as she volleyed John's response. "I don't even want to know what my parents was thinking when they had decided that Mary was an appropriate name for the 1990's"

"We should get that on a teeshirt." The teens had doubled over with their increased laughter and small tears were pooling at the corner of their eyes.

X

Their conversation seemed so effortless, easy yet meaningful. Mary had asked several questions about his life but managed not to stir any sore memories John had recently gotten under lock and key. She had only asked exactly what she needed to know about what type of person John was. She had no idea how thankful John was for Mary's ability in carrying a conversation. He had wanted to use his time with Mary wisely, but after she was done talking, he would freeze like a deer caught in headlights. It had been a while since John had talked to people his age for reasons other than school work and he had no idea how to carry out a social conversation. Should he tell her a funny anecdote of his younger years? He read somewhere that girls like it when their male partners aren't afraid of sharing baby stories.

John had felt his emotional comprehension gauge disappear over the years after his mother's death. Whether it was a light-hearted conversation or a heated discussion, John cared not about the tone but the topic of discussion. Of course he knew when he was angry or sad, John thought of himself standing on a hair-thin line between the two emotions and he could tip either way at any moment. However, very rarely did he notice the happiness of those around him. Like when Harry had drops left to get to the bottom of her current bottle. Or his dad coming home from work after avoiding another day of responsibilities and the children that depend on him. John pretended he lived in the husk of a human named John so he wouldn't feel guilty when several natural reactions escaped him and he responded on autopilot. John also worried about starting anew if he continued to be so despondent. He was willing to learn and whatever it took, the risk would be worth it in the end.

They hadn't even left each other's company and John already wanted to see Mary again. Since he knew that was entirely ridiculous, John convinced himself to settle for second best and find a way to contact her further down the road. That would be the first step in his emotional ten step plan.

With every crucial second that passed between their moments of silence, John would twitch with the necessity thrumming through his nerves. If he could be normal and just ask her straight out for her number, John wouldn't have to look like a hyperactive toddler who was coming down from a sugar rush. He would take a deep breath in whenever he would begin saying something, as if he were to finally rid himself of the question burdening his sanity, then he would begin rambling yet again. He mentally punch himself repeatedly for being such a weakling.

The teens knew that their 'date' would have to end, but they didn't anticipate the time would come so soon. When the sun began to lower in the sky and the rush of customers in Café Diem slowed, John glanced down at his watch, stunned at how the time had flown by. Mary mirrored his actions by checking the time on her phone, she let out a defeated sigh. They began to start the polite 'its getting late' conversation and John began to panic. Now he really couldn't afford to be a coward. John had to take action and quickly, he would ask Mary for her mobile number and hope for the best. At least if she was repulsed that John had believed her company was anything but sympathy, they already shared a lovely afternoon together that John wouldn't be forgetting soon.

Mary started to slide out of the booth and John's delirious racing heart spoke for him. His clammy hand reached over to grab her forearm, pulling her back into the intimate space of the booth. In a messy swell of words, he had managed to say something along the lines of _'I had a great time,'_ and later on _'can I have your number?'_ John had his hands clenched tightly, waiting for the stinging burn of rejection. Mary just smiled at John with a faint blush of color on her cheeks.

John was confused when Mary started searching through her purse and took out a blue pen. "John would you mind letting me borrow your arm for a moment?" Mary held her hand palm up waiting for John's arm. He was truly lost but decided to indulge her.

"Sure, ok.." Once he tentatively placed his hand in her's, a swarm of butterflies wrecked havoc on his insides. His heartbeat quickened and he prayed that she wouldn't notice the difference.

Mary carefully settled his hand on the table in front of her and dragged the tip of the pen in a smooth fashion. John stared at the back of his hand and saw ten digits in curly print staring right at him. She had given him his number willingly. John's mind emptied for mere seconds as he processed the information unbelievably. In his old school, none of the girls were willing to commit social suicide by fraternizing with him. So they treated him like a disease, everyone isolated themselves from John, keeping him away from the light and in the shadows.

Now John was beginning to grow suspicious. His day had gone by splendidly and without any inconveniences. For John that simply never happened, not without consequences. When he left the house, his father didn't even stir in on his bed when he heard John's footsteps trailing out of the door. At the train station, no one asked John any questions about why he was traveling alone and called security on him. Arriving at the academy office, there was no problem with the registration and he managed to slip by unnoticed. Sherlock was another story but it could've been worse so he considered it a victory.

Mary. Here was this incredible, sweet girl who was interested in _him_. Certainly there must be a limit to how many lucky passes John can have in a lifetime, and he wasn't to keen on wasting them all in a day. John knew it was his paranoia gnawing at his confidence again. That is when he decided to drop every idea he had related to the events of that day and just focus on the moment. Right now, he had earned a new friend who may or may not make his heart sing the soft song of hope. John should be counting his blessings, not casting them aside for further inspection.

When Mary said she was going to be late for her internship at the surgery, John scrambled to his feet and stood before her. He reached for her hand to help her stand and walked Mary to the door like a proper gentleman. John held the door open for her and a breathtaking smile illuminated her face. It was a shame that it was partially hidden because of her downcast gaze.

"Don't magically lose my number, John. I've heard that excuse before." She tutted at John playfully. Her face was stern and she had a finger pointed in his direction before she started laughing again.

John brought his hand to the back of his neck, "I'll see you around. Don't worry, I'll keep in touch." Just like that, John turned on his heel and walked away, eyes trained to the ground trying to maintain his balance. When he turned the corner his shoulders relaxed and he released a breath of disbelief.

X

When John had arrived to the flat after his afternoon with Mary, he was welcomed to the smell of formaldehyde and pickling juices. John curiously ventured into the kitchen only to see Sherlock in the midst of one of his experiments. The brunet was dipping what looked like a human toe into a beaker of liquid formaldehyde (or it could be vinegar from all he knew.) John felt the contents of his stomach churn but he couldn't help the feeling of fascination that rose within him. Out of all the students he could've been stuck with, somehow he'd gotten the toe-preserving teen scientist. All in all, it could've been worse thought John, at least Sherlock wasn't the partying type, bringing girls, or boys because that was fine, back at all hours sneaking contraband and basically giving John every excuse to stay out of his room.

It took Sherlock a few minutes to eventually notice John's presence in the kitchen, and par the course, John had a cold, annoyed glare sent his way. "You're back." said Sherlock once he'd was sufficiently satisfied John had received a proper scornful once over. Sherlock then went on and focused his attention back onto his pile disembodied parts submersed in liquid.

"Yes, I am. Did you not think I would come back?" John leaned against the kitchen wall, arms wrapped tightly around his body. "I'm not afraid of you."

John unwaveringly stared at Sherlock, although he might've seemed relatively tough on the outside. All John was really doing was discerning the present moment and...observing Sherlock in what appeared to be his natural environment.

It wouldn't be until later that John would slowly find out how true that statement had been. Sherlock practically lived on the table, literally on the table after that time John had found Sherlock fast asleep curled up into a ball looking rather innocent for identifying as a mad genius. Nevertheless, the ominously tube of bubbling liquid (John would eventually learn to not even bother learning their names as long as Sherlock tried to label some of the bottles) sitting inches from Sherlock's hair (good god, not the curls! Anything but the curls!) had been reason enough for John to reconsider how lucky he'd thought he was to have a roommate that never needed sleep and stuck to one specific place in the whole flat. And that was because the facts were becoming untruths, Sherlock did in fact need sleep, who would've thought huh? And now that John thought about it, from a scale of one to Gordon Ramsay on Kitchen Nightmares, how much of a prat had he been isolating Sherlock to the space of only the kitchen table.

But John was in the present, he had yet to find out about the acid stains on the carpet that would somehow begin to appear on his favorite jumpers. Or the midnight runs to Tesco, (or ASDA _**never**_ Sainsbury --he would learn that the hard way-- if they were out of the chocolatey biscuits, John) the smell of re-heated coconut curry chicken at four in the morning, least of all, what a black mood was.

And since present-John still lived in the perfect bubble of obliviousness from Sherlock's selective odiousness, (this was John trying to be nice, cut him some slack) things would continue as such.  
  
"Never said you were." Sherlock replied somewhat averse, his eyes remained glued to the table. "How was your date?"

John's eyes widen like a deer caught in the headlights. "How did you...never mind, I don't want to know. Because first of all, it wasn't a date, I've just met her. And second of all, it went pretty damn well, thank you very much."

"Dull." sighed Sherlock apathetically. "If you say it went 'pretty' well, then she mustn't have caught your complete attention. Perhaps you hoped for her to be less...charitable with her time." Sherlock sniffed before dipping another toe into a darker solution and scribbled his observations in a notebook. Sherlock was clearly trying --and succeeding-- to avoid facing the direction of John when broaching the sensitive topic of sentiment, specifically those connected to a prospective relationship.

John was starting to get irritated with Sherlock's detached way of being, and he knew from previous fights with Harry that the more he tried to scold or reason Sherlock, the farther back they would go. That wouldn't do, because so far, it's been one afternoon and whilst Sherlock was pretty much the expert on John. John only knew how much of a cold bastard Sherlock could be whenever his mouth was open.

So John thought, perhaps he would take a different approach to try and communicate with Sir Gits-a-Lot. John inhaled deeply, savoring the cool rush of air entering his lungs before submitting himself to a miniature Earth-bound version of stress-filled hell.

"I know I said I didn't want to know, but how can you possibly know about Mary?" gaped John, no, more like demanded. John shaking his head, whether it was in a positive connotation had yet to be discovered.

Sherlock highly doubted John would find any of his deductions pertaining to his love life amusing, however, John had actually come back to the flat even after the screaming fight they'd had. Which, fairly enough merited John the element of surprise and that was assuredly something Sherlock never thought he would say.

Sherlock eventually exerted himself to meet John's eyes, a sagacious twinkle in his eyes."You smell of fresh ground coffee, you went to a local café. The school cafeteria only serves artificial or instant blends to the students ever since cases of over-caffeination have been reported. The cuticles on your right hand have been picked at, could be stress, anxiety, most likely nerves in your case." A wolfish grin overtook Sherlock's face. "The dead give away, however, would have to be the mobile number on your left hand. Obviously you met with someone you intend on contacting again or you would've tried to wipe away the ink."

All John could do, in fact all he did do was gape at Sherlock. Earlier, he thought that Sherlock put on a show, pulled lies out of his ass and happened to be lucky enough to get something right. Now Sherlock had proved to John a second time his ability to see through a person rather than the actual person. John didn't know if he should've been repulsed or amazed at such delicate gift.

John shut his jaw, he didn't want to look like an imbecile in front of Sherlock and spoke, "That was...incredible. Unbelievably incredible." He lowered his arms from his chest similar to an act of resignation, or so Sherlock would like to believe.

"Really?" Never had John seen such confusion and mystery on a face that young. Sherlock looked as if he was shocked to find out John had been impressed with his deductions.

"Yes, of course. That still remains to be the most amazing thing I've gotten the chance to see in some time." breathed John in marvel, nevertheless, Sherlock frantically read over John's face for signs of deceit.

Then in a smaller voice devoid of his usual cockiness, Sherlock answered John, "Funny, that's not what people say. Actually, its quite the opposite." Sherlock touched the rims of several of his beakers, fiddling with his own fingers before going on to dumping the morgue-issued digits into the different dilutions.

"What do they usually say?" John saw that his flatmate was struggling to get the words out, so he stood patiently. It always bothered John when he felt rushed to describe how he felt and he wouldn't do the same to Sherlock. Oh, also they'd just met a few hours ago.

"Piss off." Sherlock gave John a bittersweet smile before turning back to his experiment a final time. In that moment, John saw that Sherlock was very much like him. Sherlock was by definition broken. He'd been beaten by those around him having no one to pick up the pieces, no one to glue him back together again.

X

The first day of term had finally arrived. Strangely it felt like just yesterday he had stepped out of the train and into his new life. Despite Sherlock and John's rocky first day at the flat, everything has gone swimmingly since then. Both teens had been able to tolerate each others presence without the need to murder one another. John counts to one hundred when he returns to the room and there are organs in the fridge and mould cultures in, not on, _in_ his bed.

Sherlock on the other hand, gets annoyed when John is breathing too loudly or his thoughts are becoming idiotic. In the end, the scale balances out and a certain hush falls around _221B_.

When John is not within the walls of Westminster hall, he tries to visit the athletic center every once in a while. He had always wanted to improve his muscle structure but never had the time. (He'd been told by more than one person how good his arms looked in short sleeves.)

When John found himself with several hours to spare, he would jump at the opportunity. At the gym, John preferred to remain to himself doing his ultimate best not to disturb or get in the way of other members that actually knew what they were doing. And it wasn't that he was a bumbling fool when it came to exercise equipment, however, a cross-country machine didn't necessarily need that many buttons or flashing lights to get started.

Eventually, on one of John's weekly muscle building days, he decided enough is enough and he would ask someone else around his age to spot him. The whole point of John joining the gym was to improve on his muscles, namely his arms, and he'd yet to do any serious weight lifting.

So, the first person that happened to walk by the weights area also happened to be the lucky chosen one for John's first official conversation on campus --sans Sherlock.

Nevertheless, the other student (John saw his student ID sticking out of his gym bag, damn he'd been hanging around Sherlock for too long) might not have been John's best first choice since he was in more desperate need for the exercise than John. But the man seemed like a safe bet and John stuck strong to his gut instincts.

His new 'buddy' had dark brown sweat slicked hair and rather impressive red tinted cheeks. John admittedly with a stall at first, walked towards the teen and caught his eyes, a bright, kind smile lighted up John's potential gym partner's face.

Best of all, John couldn't smell any of the school's poshness on him. John had gotten exceptionally good at telling who would be a grade a prat living off of their parents small fortune since stepping foot in _221B_. Maybe it came with nature of unfamiliar surroundings or maybe John was just allergic to bullshit.

But he digressed, the boy introduced himself as Mike Stamford, also which John embarrassingly mistook for Hamford that thank god he'd never gotten around to saying out loud. In John's defense, it wasn't his fault Mike was on the plumper side, wasn't that one of the reasons why they'd both taken up going to the gym? Also, Mike's skin permanently tinged a dark pink whilst on the exercise floor didn't help. And the tipping point of it all, John had been hungry, and a ham sandwich sounded pretty damn good at the time. Forget about all the dumbbells and such, the canteen was calling his name.

John managed two circuits with Stamford's (see he got it right!) help before the boys decided to grab a break in the locker room. They'd instantly hit it off, John and Mike. Admittedly at first it had been slow moving, strained conversations and awkwardly phrased questions. However, once the adrenaline began to kick in and John wasn't able to tell right from left anymore, conversations with Mike were all the more easier to be had.

It seemed John had suffered from the typical case of nerves but it all worked out in the end. Finally, John was allowing himself the right to laugh and joke around like a normal teenager. Maybe it was partly because he needn't worry of disappointing those around him constantly having to cancel because of work. Or whether John had finally gotten it through his thick skull what it meant to get a fresh, new start, and in London for god's sake. What was he still doing skulking about the shadows with his mouth shut and head down.

When John eventually got around to ask Mike about his Irish accent, John almost thought he had ruined a potential friendship by the look on Mike's face. _Damn John, can't you do anything right?_

Nevertheless, Mike bravely admitted he'd come to the academy on scholarship and that this was his second year as a pre-med student. John was (more than) relieved he had found another student like him, someone else that hadn't grown up with a silver spoon stuck inside their mouth.

Instantly, John felt a closer more personal connection with Mike considering both shared a similar passion to succeed, to thrive even when everyone, including life, was pushing you the other way.

It already wasn't easy being looked down upon by the whole school population partially because there was a...slight gap in net worth. John and Mike both relied on their intellectual prowess, and quite frankly, that was all it takes to succeed in life. John's quick thinking, determination, and actual mental capacity (yes, Sherlock, _obviously_ not like yours, your massive intellect is unparalleled to others) was testament enough.

-X-

When the first official day of class arrived, John was a sizzling ball of nerves bouncing from wall to wall in anticipation. His fingers shook as he got dressed, making a fuss over every wrinkle until it was almost half past eight. John left _221B_ earlier just in case the map gave him any more problems (which of course was bound to happen) and he got lost looking for his first period building.

Once he arrived to class, the classroom was set up in the way a university would set theirs. Rows of desks were elevated from a central platform where the professor would stand to deliver their lectures.

In his old school, they'd only had chalkboards, chalk not included. But here at the academy, there was a whiteboard at the front of the lecture hall ready with notes for the next class. That had been for John's english class, one of John's...weaker, not poor, simply weaker subjects. On the bright side, the hour or so of maths had gone better than expected even if he had been more than slightly confused with the revision lesson. (It wasn't John's fault academies and private schools ran on a more advanced curriculum than the state schools he'd attended his whole life. That's how the system is supposed to work, not only in England but pretty much everywhere. If you have money, you get education. The more money you have, the more education you get. If you don't have any money, too bad, so sad for you.)

After leaving his global history class, John had but only ten minutes to travel to the psychology building for his next class. That meant a nice, pleasant trip through Hyde Park during midday rush but John was determined to get there in time.

Only if he wouldn't have made that detour at one of the girl's dorm rooms, perhaps he would've made the time cut. Instead, John was three minutes late for class and still had a few staircases to go up. John made himself pause outside of the class door and catch his breath, slow down his galloping heartbeat.

John waited for a few more seconds outside of the lecture room his hands a jittering mess every time he reached for the door handle. It wasn't stalling, John wouldn't have used that word to describe the impressive electric-like shocks rolling throughout his body.

Unfortunately, however, he'd reached that unavoidable point in time where he would have to enter the classroom whether he were ready or not. He lightly traced the door handle with his fingertips making tremendous effort to close his hand against the knob, all he could do now was hope for the best.

One step into the classroom and John already felt an aura of uneasiness around him. He was greeted by a male teacher in his early twenties. He looked unnaturally strict with a tremendously pompous suit, and his auburn hair combed back meticulously. John decided not to speak ill of his teacher, especially this teacher since he knew karma although sometimes lovely, was a necessary and cruel force of nature.

After receiving the expected accusatory stare from the teacher, John moved to one of the few seats left towards the back of the room. He'd sat in the seat closest to the aisle and finally settled down with a sigh, oh, and his books.

In black writing, John saw Professor Holmes written in bright contrast against the otherwise blank whiteboard. Something in his teachers eyes catalyzed an unsettling explosion of suspicion to begin within his every nerve.

Besides that, you know, the niggling feeling of constant foreboding and slight uneasiness, John hadn't missed any important information and for that John was somewhat relieved. However, it all stopped the moment John felt a pair of eyes gouging at the back of his neck. John's skin froze over, each and every single hair on his body stood on edge, shivers both of fear and genuine cold wracked his body. John was experiencing the beginning of another ice age.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S. Don't be afraid to comment/kudos, I don't bite! 
> 
> Okay, maybe I nibble but I'll try not to. ;)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The time has been long but here it is, the next installment of A Name On Paper. I hope you enjoy! And thank you to everyone that still reads my nonsense. :)

A resonating hum registered similar to white noise within John's panicked subconscious. It wouldn't be until later John recognized the detached tone of his new professor.

John's stomach was waging war on his insides, an overwhelming sense of nausea making it physically impossible to pay attention.

 _What the_ hell _is wrong with me? Why can't I move?_ John thought frantically once he'd discovered the slight, yet very sudden lack of movement in his limbs. _Oh Lord, whatever it is, stop it now! I'm so not in the mood to play this game. Quit it life --god? Harry, is that you?_ (As she is the last female Watson, it could be very probable certain powers --spirits, beings take your pick were in her favor, her drunkenness included.)

John physically could not move any part of his body, not when there were steel blue eyes dissecting John apart from across the room. The frigid stare although familiar enough seeped deep within John's blood stream dosing out palpable fear. John's heart rate became sluggish as the blood in his veins began to freeze.

Out of every course the academy provided, Sherlock had had to attend John's psychology class. But of course, what other class would the self-righteous git attend? It had been too good to be true John hadn't seen Sherlock in any of his other classes but John had left it to Sherlock taking advanced placement classes.

And still, John wanted to laugh maniacally at the fact that the man who could tell he had a lesbian sister by a collar stain would need to know psychology. But technically, Sherlock was the most emotionally stunted person John had ever met, perhaps he would benefit learning more about the rest of the human species not classified under _Sherlockian Holmsius._

John had to admit that he had no problems whatsoever being around Sherlock in their dorm. Sherlock tended to be more manageable in the privacy of their flat, but the second they left the walls of _221B_ , Sherlock was a petulant toddler at best.

Every single rule changed once the flatmates were placed in a classroom together. Not only was John trying to maintain a low profile, but Sherlock tried exceptionally hard to prove he was a heartless force to reckon with every chance he got. Sherlock didn't seem like the forgiving type if he were forced to break character for his peasant of a flatmate --now classmate as well-- John.

A thin pile of papers slid onto his desk, shaking him out of the frost induced trance. He stared at the papers in his hands and noticed it was the syllabus for the school year. John took a sheet for himself and passed the rest of the papers to the students on his left. When he skimmed through the paper, he noticed that most of their course work consisted of group assignments. John didn't mind the prospect of working with other students for the rest of the year. He would get to learn about the lives of other people and hopefully make new friends in the process. As of now, John could only consider Mike and Mary casual friends while Sherlock had his own category for himself.

John really had no clue what to consider Sherlock as. Was Sherlock his friend or perhaps just his roommate and nothing else? If John were dealing with any one else but Sherlock, he could easily assume that they were on the path of friendship. But Sherlock was his own species, waiting to be recognized.

John felt the students grow impatient and start squirming in their seats at one point of the class. When he finally tuned into the class discussion, Mr Holmes was announcing their first group project. The only details John had failed to catch was the grading system and the paper format. He could easily be informed of what he missed by his partner once they were broken up into pairs.

The regal tone of Mr Holmes rang clearly through the room, "For this project, you will be required to write a minimum of five pages on your partner of choice. However, you will be required to follow the guideline that will be distributed once you are in pairs." Mr Holmes sat on the edge of his desk and crossed his legs with finesse. "The essay must be on your observations on your partner for the next eight weeks."

A girl seated in the first row raised her hand, her old bracelets gangling as they hit against one another, "What do you mean by observations?"

Mr Holmes stood and walked across the first row with his hands held behind his back. "Simple. I want to know what make the person think --actually think. What make their heart beat faster or what makes it stop." Then, Mr Holmes came to a stop and cast a glance to his entire class, "I want to read your paper and instantly be transported into their mind."

The class went silent, an immediate trance was spread throughout the air. John wanted to cringe but he found himself incapable of moving for the second time today. This project will be one of the most demanding projects he had ever been assigned. It wasn't the menial requirements like page format and such, but the exposure, the bonding that would be involved.

John was mortified at the actual idea of being forced to rip open his heart and bear it for all to see. To be so attached to a person that John willingly let them see into his inner mechanisms. Tick away like the dysfunctional machine it has always been.To let someone take your pieces apart and then trust them wholly to put you back together, just as they found you.

John had come to this school with the mission of forgetting the past several years with his father. The years that molded his sunken body and imbedded the anger and resilience into his every cell. The years John had his wings clipped and taken from him. John wanted to be reborn, to be given a new pair of wings and soar through the air again. Now here he was, with his second pair of wings, about to take his first leap and free himself from the shackling chains, but a storm is approaching.

His father always had a way of ruining everything in John's life. Whether it was with his physical presence or the overwhelming space he took up in John's mind. Every train of thought John would have somehow ended up involving his father. He would try to swat at the pestering voice of his father inside of his head, but all that did was magnify the aggressive nature of the comments. John couldn't make a cup of tea without hearing his father comment about how domestic he was.

During the nights John was free from work, the voice would be utterly distracting. Ever so, that John would just stare at the pages of his book but never actually read a word. How could he when all he heard running through his head was the shame he supposedly brought to the Watson name for being an inconsiderate sod. John knew it wasn't true, deep down somewhere in his heart and mind he knew it was all made up by his insane father but it still hurt him to hear. So, John had run away to assure himself a brighter future, but that didn't mean the voices didn't worm their way slowly into his self-esteem.

 _I'll just have to suck it up,_ thought John. That was truly all he could do at this point. John would not let his academic life suffer for his poor excuse of a father. People like his father did not deserve such glorification, he made John sick to his stomach. _Maybe I'll just talk about Harry and try to share as little about my parents as possible,_ John advised himself.

It seemed that Mr Holmes had enough of the stunned silence from the class and cleared his throat, "Since it is the first project of the school year, I will be allowing you to select your partners. Consider it a test to see the dynamic between your partner of choice." A smug grin crawled onto his teachers face. "Also, it will tell me more about you as an individual."

The class began to mutter to one another, puzzled by the last comment Mr Holmes had made. Another brave soldier faced the war that was Mr Holmes as he raised his hand to ask the pressing question. "Mr Holmes, what do you mean that you will learn about how we work by our partners? How can our partner tell you about our personality?"

Mr Holmes chuckled with a slightly cynical lilt, "Simple. The first assignment of the year is usually the hardest. Well, that's dependent on the teacher, and whether the students gravitate towards the people they are acquainted to, and the extent all parties are willing to go through to shorten the work load." Mr Holmes arched one of his eyebrows increasing the wicked appearance that was successfully frightening every student in the class. "And consider this a fair tip, previous students have preferred to choose someone dependable for a project such as this which requires such emotional bearing. They choose a partner that will protect their darkest secrets."

Once again, the class was stunned into silence and Mr Holmes just smirked disturbingly at the terrified faces in the room. "Now select a partner, but remember, choose wisely." With that out of the way, Mr Holmes sat behind his desk smoothing the creases in his charcoal suit.

Everyone (including John) remained in their seats. Their heads were actively searching the room for an adequate partner, yet no movements were made. A posh clearing of the throat echoed throughout the room and suddenly, every student scrambled to their feet joining someone else at different corners of the room.

John felt torn for he had no idea what to do. Should he try to connect with the other students and find a partner himself? Or, should he wait until he was grouped with the inevitable spare student? (Unless he was the spare student himself) However, John knew that neither option would end with positive results for him.

If John were to actively search for a partner, his plan of flying under the radar would be thrown out the window. Not only would people reject his company since he was 'fresh meat,' one look at John's overall look and they would be laughing in his face. _Let's all laugh at the kid without the Dolce pocket square._ No thank you, he thought. John would prefer to be paired with another lonely kid if he was going to reveal his true self.

John remained seated in his chair, silently tapping his fingers on the table to no particular tune. He patiently waited as the hoard of students in the middle of the class began weeding out leaving only several members still standing. Most of the students were already chattering with their partners in different rows of seats. John was still sitting in his chair, paying no attention to the jealousy rising within him. He wanted friends for this very reason, so that when group projects were assigned, he wouldn't be the paired with the other last available person.

John quickly stood from his seat when he saw only a girl milling around in the center of the room. Pacing himself down the stairs hoping to introduce himself to his new partner. When John was about a meter away from the girl, he felt a frosty hand grab his upper arm. _Oh!_

  
John gasped in surprise and quickly turned around to see the owner of the hand. John's eyes widen and he shuddered upon seeing the cosmic blue eyes stare into his. Sherlock dragged John towards the final rows of the classroom without an explanation, sitting down as if kidnapping John were a usual occurrence.

John was speechless to say the least at the events that had taken place in the last several seconds. He stood next to Sherlock with his mouth drawn into a thin line, eyebrows furrowed, "What was that for?" John said in a terse voice. He was honestly trying to control the raging anger that had begun to boil inside his stomach.

Sherlock didn't even bother to look up at John as he opened a notebook and extracted a half chewed pen from his pant pocket, "Hmm, that? Oh, yes. That was me saving you from making a fool of yourself on the first day of class. A thank you wouldn't go amiss."

John groaned and rubbed two fingers against his temple, his headache intensified with every other word Sherlock said. "From what exactly were you saving me from? And why should I be thanking you?"

Sherlock's hand stilled on the paper, stopping his writing to properly (mock) answer John. He raised his head to look at John with an amused grin. "So many questions, John, so little time." Sherlock's words were dripping with poisonous sarcasm, melting away at John's patience.

John squared his shoulders and lowered his voice an octave, "I'm being serious, Sherlock. Tell me what you were supposedly saving me from."

Sherlock seemed reluctant to put an end to his game this quickly, "If you must know, the girl you were about to choose as your partner was Sally Donovan. She is the heir of a stock company in London. In my opinion, she's a pain to deal with especially when she's around her cheating boyfriend, Anderson." Sherlock met John's stare and offered him a small smile, the closest Sherlock knew about comforting others.

John was still confused, but mostly infuriated that Sherlock thought he was entitled to make decisions on John's behalf "Why would you care if I had chosen Sally anyway? It's not like you would've had to work with her?"

On the outside, Sherlock had tried to look indifferent, to slate his face clean of any emotion. However, on the inside, Sherlock felt as if a cluster of live wires had replaced his arteries. How dare John expect an ulterior motive from Sherlock? But when has Sherlock shown any behavior to prove otherwise.

"John, don't be stupid. I already know you're a scholarship student, but that doesn't mean the idiots around you know. What would happen to my reputation if the other students heard of our situation --I mean your situation." In that very instant, Sherlock wanted to slap himself in the face. Did he really just say that to John? Wasn't he just about to clear himself from any reasonable doubt? Now here Sherlock had gone and buried himself deeper in trouble.

Like the flick of a switch, John went from reluctantly relieved to furiously offended. His fingers began to twitch and John felt the horrid monster of anger crawl into his arteries. "That's why you chose me as your p-partner." John took a deep breath to refrain from stuttering. "So, you could save your own reputation."

Sherlock saw how John had transformed right before his eyes. One second John had been slightly tense, but the next he was a machine set to attack. "Of course. It was important I saved my reputation, but I thought it would be entertaining to save yours as well." John tilted his head in confusion and Sherlock continued. "Sally's father not only owns a stock company, but he plays a small roll in the British government. Wouldn't want to get on his daughter's bad side, yeah?" Sherlock offered John a pathetic smile that disappeared quickly from his face.

John took a step back after he'd absorbed the information he was given. Sherlock had saved him from a huge complication down the road. What would Sally have done if she had learned that her partner is a low-class stowaway at a rich school. Her father had enough money and power to have John deported to Antarctica. "Oh...Well then I should thank you."

"Don't." Waving his hand in dismissal, Sherlock sought the opportunity to change the topic. "Since you are my partner and my flatmate, I believe that will facilitate our data gathering." Sherlock was writing at an incredible speed John could hardly believe that the pen was actually touching the paper.

"That's true, now you can't ignore me anymore, yeah?." John chuckled lightly causing Sherlock to momentarily slow his note taking.

Sherlock breathed through his mouth, "Guess not." His wiry finger clutched the pen harder against his fingers as he wrote, Sherlock didn't want to admit that it was because his hands were sweating.

After a few minutes of pen scratching and even breath later, John opened to a clean page in his note book and spoke, "What are you writing? It seems...thorough." John's ears turned pink at his lack of words and he turned away to fetch a pen hoping that Sherlock would still be occupied with his scripture.

"This is a simple introduction to the data I will be collecting on you. I suggest you do the same, it helps organize the information." Sherlock spoke with an air of indifference, as if everyone magically possessed the capability of jotting down three pages of data --in the last twenty minutes.

"Blimey!" John gaped at the boy before him. "That's incredible." The blond boy shook his head in astonishment and stared attentively at Sherlock's hands. John watched the way he would switch from one writing style to another reading over some of the sentences. He was mesmerized by the detail Sherlock was putting in.

Sherlock tried not to blush like a school girl, but his long curls hid his pink tinted cheeks from John. "I wouldn't say that." He let the pen fall onto the desk and fiddled with his fingers unconsciously.

John lightly hit Sherlock on the arm, "You truly are something special, Sherlock." John's sky blue eyes twinkled with sincerity. Sherlock found himself unsettled by the sudden rush of flattery that only made his blush intensify.

"Why do you keep saying that?" Sherlock narrowed his eyes onto John's, now he was getting curious.

No one ever complimented Sherlock, better yet, they never stuck around long enough to understand him. John had entered his life and from the first day, he had understood that Sherlock was different. The difference between John and the rest of humanity, John doesn't put a limit on Sherlock's brain when it is running at the speed of light. And when Sherlock exhausts himself, John is there with a cup of tea and pure silence. How could someone as ordinary as John Watson walk into Sherlock Holmes' life and manage to wedge himself deep within the cold crevasses of his being.

"'Cause it's true." John shrugged with a soft smile on his face as if he were commenting on the weather instead of redefining Sherlock's life.

Sherlock scowled at John, he was clearly angry at John for not explaining himself further. Curse John's blasé attitude when Sherlock required data on John's actions towards him. For experimental purposes only, of course. Sentiment is the only exception Sherlock has when it comes to experimenting, but John seems to surpass that rule.

Sherlock focused his attention once again on John once he noticed the boy was waiting for him to react, "Well, enough about me. I want to know more about you, John" Sherlock steepled his hands under his chin, closing his eyes in thought. Then, he piped in, opening one eye to cast a side glance at John, "Besides the fact that your mother is dead, your sister's an alcoholic, and your dad verbally and psychologically abuses." Then with a flippant wave of dismissal, Sherlock signaled for John to begin.

John wasn't surprised that Sherlock knew about his mother's death and the exact abuse his father acted upon. However, it still stung when he heard it outside of his head, because that meant that it was real. Someone actually knew about his messy life, yet the way Sherlock talked about it sounded so casual and unaffected. John was actually beginning to thank every deity for Sherlock saving him from picking Sally.

When John saw Sherlock in his thinking pose, he couldn't help but chuckle. About seventy percent of the time in their flat, Sherlock was frozen in that exact position whilst refusing any and every human amenity. "If you know so much about me, Sherlock, why don't you tell me about yourself?"

Sherlock released a deep breath similar to one of annoyance. "My life is irrelevant to this conversation."

"Technically, we're each supposed to write a paper on each other. I'm sort of forced to get to get to know you and what you do with your life." John scrunched his nose like he always did when he was getting uncomfortable.

Sherlock released an exasperated sigh a thespian would envy, arms flailing about "If you insist --however there is nothing to tell."

"There must be something you can tell me. It doesn't have to be much, just the basics," John tried not to push Sherlock because he understood himself what it felt to be bombarded with questions you didn't have the right answers to --especially when it was his family asking said questions.

"My name is Sherlock Holmes, and I am eighteen years of age. Is that basic enough for you?" John felt an arrow dipped in acid sarcasm strike him directly in the chest.

"Sherlock, that's not fair considering you know both about my parents and my sister's addiction." John huffed, he was starting to get annoyed with Sherlock's games. If Sherlock was going to be difficult, John would be too.

A theatrical eye roll later, "Its not my fault that I connected the dots with the evidence I was presented. You can't hold my intellect against me. You never actively divulged that knowledge directly to me, therefore you have no way to get me to confess any details of my life." Sherlock proudly crossed his arms around his chest and waited for John to retaliate.

"Fine, Sherlock. I can't force you to tell me about yourself but I at least thought you would make an effort now that you've selected me as your partner." John scratched the back of his neck and let his hand fall heavily to his lap.

 _Oh Lord. Why is there a putrid churning in my stomach,_ thought Sherlock. He searched through the files in his mind-palace, but they failed to give Sherlock an answer. Sherlock didn't _have_ any facts on feeling guilt and the side effects it may cause.

"I guess I am at liberty to tell you about my experiments. It is something I feel comfortable talking about and I consider an important part of my life." Sherlock's swollen ego deflated as he gave into John's whims. Sherlock has never been known to indulge others, but it's John Watson and he is an anomaly to Sherlock's existence.

John's disappointment morphed into a wide smile, "I'll take what I can get." John had millions of questions bouncing off of his skull to ask Sherlock about his experiments. He just couldn't decide which one to ask first as they started taking over his head.

"Will you just get on with it John," Sherlock sighed with a roll of his eyes. "I'm losing patience and once I've lost patience it's nearly impossible to get me back to task."

"Alright, tetchy are we? Calm down Sherlock, it's not a race." John said at ease. He wanted to see now how much he could get away with irritating Sherlock. Not much it seemed.

"Just --Just get on with it would you?" John felt like he was looking into the eye of a hurricane due to the intensity of Sherlock's thunderous mood.

Fine, maybe it was time to stop toying with Sherlock so John tried to think of something to ask Sherlock but he kept drawing up a blank. What did you ask someone whose favorite past time was emulsifying human fat with hydrogen peroxide in a blender? There was no overlap in interest between Sherlock and John, that they knew of so far, and that could considerably cause quite the lull in conversation.

"Um, okay...Do you have any siblings?" John asked hesitantly as if he were treading in shark infested waters.

"I would rather not talk about him, _he's_ a fat, meddling fool and waste of my breath. Next question." Sherlock didn't deign John with even a second more to think about the whole sibling question.

"So I'll take that as a yes, and since you said he I'm assuming it's a brother." John smirked extra wide to show Sherlock he too could use the information hidden in plain sight to extract the facts.

"Oh, yes very good John. You put two and two together and got for. Do you want a pat on the head? A prize for using your common sense?"

"No need for the snark Sherlock, I was just trying to use some of the tricks you taught me."

Sherlock held in a gasp as he heard John say something considerably, and unknowingly touching without even a second of hesitation. It had rolled off his tongue like any other sentence would've and just as sincere as well. Sherlock didn't know what was weirder. The fact John had actually listened to him after a slinging of insults or the fact that John had considered Sherlock's techniques good enough to use for himself.

"Yes, I noticed." Muttered Sherlock quietly to himself. "Nevertheless, would it be so hard to just continue with the questions? I'm already here against my will."

"Nice touch there Sherlock, with the drama." John pursed his lips and literally a thousand different questions now decided to infest his head making it nearly impossible for John to concentrate on anything. And because of that, John may have committed what could easily be the biggest foot-in-mouth moment of his life.

"So, do you have anyone besides me that calls you out on your theatrics?" Sherlock raised his head from over his notebook and looked at John in bewilderment. Maybe John hadn't made himself clear, "You know, like a girlfriend." And again, John saw Sherlock radiating an air of bemusement so naturally John continued opening his big fat mouth. "Or a boy friend, which is fine. Totally okay with me, I have no problem if you have a boyfriend because it's --"

"All okay, I know John. I get the point. You're okay with me being involved sexually and romantically with another human being but that's not really my area, thank you very much." Sherlock flicked his gaze over John once, twice before turning back to his paper, and although he might not've been speaking directly to John, it still sent shivers up the blond boy's spine. "And who ever told you your opinion mattered to me that I cared whether you approved on any of my hypothetical relationships or not."

"Woah, Sherlock, I get the point, you get the point, let's change the subject." John exhaled shaking his head. "Moving on, tell me, that thing you're doing back the flat, what exactly are you trying to achieve? From what I've seen you've just put different fabrics inside of a jar of pigs fat and kept it under the central heater for two days now."

John leaned forward on his chair intent on listening to every word about to come out of Sherlock's mouth because come one. Who wouldn't want to know the reason someone thought it would be a good idea to preserve fabric in one hundred percent congealed fat.

"Isn't it obvious?" John knew it was best to stay away from verbal responses when Sherlock was in his 'hopeless for the rest of human kind' sort of mood, so he blinked his eyes once and shook his head. "No, of course it isn't. What must it be like in that funny little head of yours?" Scoffed Sherlock for what seemed like the hundredth time in the last ten minutes.

"Just when I thought you were getting soft on me." John sneered, although his tone was still somewhat light and he was actually mad at Sherlock. More like annoyed at the snarky boy. "It's a hell of a lot easier if you just answered my question, Sherlock, all attitude set aside for now."

"To put into terms for your simple, underdeveloped brain, the reason I've dispensed fabric into purified duck fat, actually is to later test the flammability of animal fat versus natural occurring fats when exposed to high flames." Navy blue eyes stared straight at Sherlock, millions and trillions of questions running through them as the milliseconds passed. "I'm trying to prove a man's innocence by showing the grease on his shirt, and of the fryer at his work would've immediately caught on fire if he were anywhere near the crime scene at the time it happened."

Both boys stared at each other for a considerable amount of seconds before John spoke, breaking the tense silence between them. "That's--"

Sherlock held his hand up to John, "Too much information, right, yeah I know. I shouldn't have told you that, forget I ever said anything."

"--Incredible, Sherlock. Seriously everything you do is amazing, if not a bit messy, I take that back, horrendously messy but brilliant." John looked like an excitable puppy as he poured his praises on Sherlock.

Sherlock closed his notebook and put his pen down. If he was just going to continue pausing in the middle of every sentence, why should he bother to write anymore? "Oh!" startled Sherlock. "Yeah, of course, it's brilliant, mess has nothing to do with the true work of a genius."

"O-Okay...Moving on --how exactly did you get caught up with the whole fryer grease/animal fat situation? It's not something you exactly come across every day." Sherlock marveled at the sentimentality of true curiosity that emanated from John, nothing faked there from what Sherlock could see.

"It's a long story, and one you probably won't even understand." John rolled his eyes in a 'try-me' sort of way and Sherlock conceded. "I lend my observation abilities to those with that present a case interesting enough. And sometimes when the Scotland Yard are out of their depth they come and consult me, it's no big deal."

John's mouth gaped open and Sherlock wasn't sure whether it was a good thing or not, "You've got to be shitting me. Are you serious?" Sherlock straightened his back preparing himself for anything John would throw his way. "Again, that's incredible! How did I not know this? I live with you for chrissakes! Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't exactly find it pertinent to our conversations." said Sherlock in an unsure voice.

"True," reasoned John with a shrug of the shoulders. "I mean, in between our pleasant discussions of me telling you to keep your experiments labeled separate from the food in the fridge and not to tamper with the tea. Yeah, I really don't see where that would've come up in a conversation."

Sherlock squinted his eyes before letting out a low chuckle. "So that thing you said, the one about --I think you know what I'm talking about, did you actually mean it?"

"Of course I meant it, Sherlock, that's fucking cool working for the Scotland Yard. I mean, technically, you have them wrapped around your finger helping them solve their cases if I go by every experiment I have to disinfect from the many surfaces of our flat."

"I've told you many times before that you don't have to clean up behind me. I'm perfectly capable of taking care of my own messes." Sherlock exaggeratively raised his nose into the air.

"No, you haven't, Sherlock. Never have I heard you say anything about your delightful messes, not once. Unless I have an identical twin you've been secretly talking to that I should start worrying about."

"Are you sure? I could've sworn I told you not to bother touching anything, more than once actually." Sherlock pursed his lips. "If I recall correctly, I remember I last told yesterday, did you really forget that quickly, or did you just not bother to listen?"

Oh the pleasures of fighting liking a domestic couple with your flatmate now also psych partner. "Sherlock, you do know I wasn't at the flat all day yesterday shadowing the on-call doctor, right? There's no way I could've possibly heard you say anything about your experiments when I was nowhere near you."

"That's irrelevant, John, dull really." Sherlock waved a flippant hand at John and admittedly it made John steam a tad bit but he was used to Sherlock winding him up just for his amusement.

"So you mean to tell me you just carry on talking to me even if I'm away." nodding his head, John smirked over at Sherlock whose face quickly turned a rosy color.

"It's not my responsibility to know when you are, or aren't at the flat. I simply voice my opinions, sometimes make vital announcements and it's up to you whether you hear them or not."

"And how do you expect me to do that, pray tell?" John smirked. Sherlock was sure he would've pissed Jon off by know. He was technically, sort of, definitely acting like a dick telling the blond boy he didn't even pay enough attention to his existence to know whether he was in the room or not.

"I would suggest you not leave the dorm unless you want to miss anymore important news. For example, were you there when I talked about the floor wide extermination happening later this afternoon, all personal belongings of value must be taken out of the room before anything gets tarted."

"Shit, Sherlock. No I wasn't there when you decided it would be a good time to share that tiny nugget of information." John sighed heavily, he pinched his forehead with his index and thumb. "But at least I should thank you for telling me now."

Sherlock smiled feebly at John and fiddled with his fingers for a bit. _Stop it Sherlock, that shows slight signs of weakness and you are not weak._

"Like I said, not my fault --but I'll try to maybe, possibly be more conscious on whether you're around or not next time I say something of importance." Sherlock although he spoke in his usual blasé tone, there was still a discernible hint of softness somewhere deep, deep down.

"That's nice of you, Sherlock, thank you. I really appreciate the effort -- I don;t know why people say you're such a bad person when you're actually one of the --"

"Alright ladies and gentleman, I believe that's enough for today's class. Please pack up your belongings and head back to your original seats to await for the bell's dismissal." Was it a good thing Mr Holmes had decided to interrupt when he did? John had no clue, neither did Sherlock. Because on one hand he wanted to hear what John had to say about him but on the other Sherlock wasn't sure if that would be such a good idea.

Either way, there would be no finding out now because John was back at his seat halfway across the class, eyes glued to his phone and Sherlock knew, he just knew that he was texting that girl from the other day at the café. But that was alright, Sherlock had just said relationships were not his area and he was a man of his word.

But it shouldn't hurt this much to see John grinning over some stupid words typed out on a screen. It really shouldn't and Sherlock hated himself for feeling this way. Only the weak caught and emotion so elementary such as jealousy. John Watson was becoming a greater problem than Sherlock had expected when he'd first walked in and saw a blonde head sitting on one of the arm chairs of 221B.

Sherlock felt it wouldn't have to be that big of a problem, but only if Sherlock hadn't seen John blush at his phone with a shy smile on his face, one Sherlock had never seen on John before. Bugger, this was going to be harder than he'd ever imagined.

 


End file.
